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BRITISH   VERSE 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED  BY 
DANIEL  V.  THOMPSON,  A.M. 

HEAD    OF    THE    DEPARTMENT    OF    ENGLISH    IN    THE 
LAWRENCEVII.LE    SCHOOL 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1916, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
July,   1925 


PRINTED  IN  THE  U.  S.  A. 


PREFACE 

All  anthologies  are  experiments.  This  one  is  an  experiment 
in  a  peculiar  degree,  for  it  undertakes  to  present,  in  three 
hundred  pages,  the  whole  field  of  so-caUed  modern  British 
poets,  from  Chaucer  to  Alfred  Noyes,  to  that  imaginary  but 
oft-invoked  reader,  the  average  boy.  To  be  exact,  there  are 
ninety-five  poets,  represented  by  two  hundred  and  sixty-one 
pieces.  In  addition,  there  are  notes,  both  general  and  specific, 
and  a  section  devoted  to  references  likely  to  be  of  use  to  the 
young  student  who  is  doubtful  as  to  the  meaning  of  technical 
terms,  or  as  to  the  significance  of  historical  periods,  movements, 
or  names.  Moreover,  both  in  the  table  of  contents  and  in  the 
text,  every  poet's  date  and  place  of  birth  and  death  are  pre- 
sented to  the  reader's  eye. 

Certain  principles  have  governed  the  selection  of  the  poems. 
In  the  first  place  the  organic  unity  of  British  Poetry  is  illustrated 
by  a  large  variety  of  examples  representative  of  every  period. 
In  the  second  place,  the  following  of  a  chronological  order  is  ex- 
pected to  inculcate  in  the  boy's  mind  both  a  sense  of  this  vital 
unity,  and  of  that  diversity  between  periods  which  signifies 
advance  or  reaction.  In  the  third  place,  while  great  names 
have  been  accorded  extensive  representation,  many  lesser 
writers  have  been  included,  chiefly  because  their  work  offers 
some  special  vantage-ground  for  the  young  student's  considera- 
tion. Finally,  and  most  seriously,  the  selection  has  been  made 
with  the  hope  that  the  boy  of  normal  ability  may  find  some  re- 
ward in  every  piece,  and,  in  the  collection  as  a  whole,  particular 
pieces  distinctly  to  his  taste.  This  last  principle  has  involved 
the  introduction  of  some  selections  which  are  admittedly  not 
great  poetry.  I  beUeve  these  comparatively  commonplace  ex- 
amples will  serve  to  encourage  the  boy  of  small  cultivation,  or 
extreme  diffidence,  and,  at  the  same  time,  exemplify  to  the 
keener  student  the  difference  between  the  popular  and  the  great 
in  poetry.  Indeed,  a  faithful  reading  should  arouse  in  any  boy 
some  critical  sense  of  the  more  perfect  work.  This  I  believe 
with  the  more  confidence  because  the  examples  chosen  are 


IV  Preface 

mainly  works  which  the  innate  understanding  of  the  boy  or  his 
youthful  experience  will  have  prepared  him  to  grasp.  He  may 
find  the  form  puzzling,  or  the  words  new,  but  if  he  will  press 
through  these  to  the  thought  or  emotion  that  lies  within  the 
poem,  he  will  find  in  every  case  that  it  is  a  thought  or  emotion 
which  he,  in  common  with  older  readers,  can  apprehend  or  ap- 
preciate. The  growth  of  the  sense  for  beauty  is  mainly  what  is 
known  as  a  by-product. 

******** 

It  is  proper  to  mention  the  four  publishers  whose  permission 
has  been  graciously  accorded  for  the  use  of  copyright  poems: 
the  John  Lane  Company,  publishers  of  Henry  Newbolt's  The 
Island  Race;  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company,  publishers  of  Austin 
Dobson's  poems;  the  Macmillan  Company,  publishers  of  the 
works  of  John  Masefield;  and  the  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company, 
publishers  of  the  poems  of  Alfred  Noyes. 

DVT 

Lawrenceville,  Fein^ar^-,  1916.  ^'   *•  ^' 

POSTSCRIPT 

When  this  volume  was  put  forth  tentatively  in  May,  1916, 
it  bore  the  title,  British  Verse  for  Boys.  Before  the  second 
printing,  friendly  protests  from  schools  for  girls,  and  for  boys 
and  girls,  made  a  revision  of  this  title  imperative.  The  exclusive 
phrase  was  dropped. 

Now  that  nine  months  have  passed,  the  cordial  response  of 
the  classroom  emboldens  me  to  call  by  name  a  few  of  those 
counselors  to  whom  I  dared  in  the  preliminary  edition  to  render 
only  anonymous  thanks.  The  plan  and  contents  of  the  book 
were  submitted  to  Professor  George  Herbert  Palmer;  the 
commentary  was  reviewed  by  Professor  John  Erskine;  ac- 
curacy in  fact  and  judgment  was  challenged  by  Mr.  I.  H.  B. 
Spiers;  while  the  editorial  task  was  shared  by  Messrs.  O.  H. 
McPherson,  P.  R.  Colwell,  F.  J.  V.  Hancox,  and  others  of 
my  colleagues,  and  my  boys. 

"Beggar  that  I  am,  I'm  even  poor  in  thanks." 


February,  191 7. 


D.  V.  T. 


T.\BLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface .— tt. iii 

Geoffrey  Chaucer,  1340  (?)  London — London,  1400 
The  Canterbury  Tales:  Selections  from  the  Prologue 

1 .  The  Tabard  Inn i 

2.  The  Knight 2 

3 .  The  Squire 3 

4.  The  Prioress 4 

5 .  The  Clerk 5 

6.  The  Parson 6 

Old  Ballads 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 8 

Chevy  Chase 1 1 

Lord  Lovel 19 

Barbara  Allen's  Cruelty 21 

The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington 22 

Sir  Edward  Dyer,  1550  (?)  Somersetshire — London,  1607 

My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  Is 24 

Edmund  Spenser,  1552,  London — London,  1599 

Two  Sonnets 

1.  Sweet  is  the  rose  but  grows  upon  a  brier 25 

2.  One  day  I  wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand 26 

Hope  Deferred 26 

//"a  Selection  from  the  Faerie  Queene 27 

John  Lyly,  1554  (?)  London — London,  1606 

Cupid  and  Campaspe 28 

Sir  Philip  Sidney,  1554,  Kent — Netherlands,  1586 

Come  Sleep,  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace 29 

My  True  Love  hath  my  heart 29 

V 


vi  Table  of  Contents 

PAGE 

Michael  Drayton,  1563,  Warwick — London,  1631 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part 30 

Agincourt 30 

Christopher  Marlowe,  1564,  Canterbury— London,  1593 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love 34 

Tamburlaine  to  Calyphas 35 

William  Shakspeee,      1564,     Stratford-on-Avon — Slralford-on- 
Avon,  1616 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree 36 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 36 

It  was  a  Lover  and  his  Lass 37 

Where  the  Bee  sucks,  there  suck  1 38 

A  Sea  Dirge 38 

Hark,  Hark,  the  Lark 38 

Silvia 39 

jCrabbed  Age  and  Youth 39 

Five  Sonnets 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes 40 

2.  When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 40 

3.  Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 41 

4.  When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 41 

5.  Poor  Soul,  the  center  of  my  sinful  earth 42 

Henry  V  to  his  Troops  before  Harfleur 42 

Ben  JoNSON,  1573,  London — London,  1637 

To  CeUa 43 

The  Noble  Nature 44 

Simplex  Munditiis 44 

To  the  Memory  of  My  Beloved  Master,  William  Shakspere,  and 

what  He  Hath  Left  Us 45 

George  Wither,  1588,  Hampshire — London,  1667 

Shall  I,  Wastmg  in  Despair 47 

William  Browne,  1591,  Devonshire — Devonshire,  1643 

Eptiaph  on  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke 49 


Table  of  Contents  vii 

PAGE 

Robert  Herrick,  1591,  London — Devonshire,  1674 

To  the  Virgins  to  Make  Much  of  Time 49 

Delight  in  Disorder 5° 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes 5° 

To  Daffodils Si 

To  Anthea  Who  May  Command  Him  Anything 51 

Henry  King,  1592,  Buckinghainshire — Sussex,  1669 

Like  to  the  Falling  of  a  Star 52 

George  Herbert,  1593,  Wales — Wiltshire,  1633 

Virtue 53 

t./The  Pulley 53 

The  Bosom  Sin 54 

The  Elixir 54 

Edmund  Waller,  1606,  Ilerlfordshire — Beaconsficld,  1685 

On  a  Girdle ~-  ■ 5S 

John  Milton,  1608,  London — London,  1674 
Five  Sonnets 

1.  On  His  Having  Arrived  to  the  Age  of  Twenty-three 56 

2.  To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell,  May  16,  1652 56 

3.  On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont 57 

4.  On  His  Blindness 57 

5.  To  Cyriack  Skinner 58 

Epitaph  on  the  Admirable  Dramatic  Poet,  W.  Shakspere 58 

Sir  John  Suckling,  1609,  Middlesex — Paris,  1642 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  Lover 59 

Richard  Lovelace,  1618,  Kent — London,  1658 

To  Lucasta  on  Going  to  the  Wars 60 

To  Althea  from  Prison 6c 

John  Dryden,  1631,  Northamptonshire — London,  1700 

Under  the  Portrait  of  Milton 61 

A  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1687 62 

Alexander's  Feast,  or  the  Power  of  Music 64 


viii  Table  of  Contents 

PAGE 

John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester,  1647,  Oxfordshire — Oxford- 
shire, 1680 

Epitaph  on  Charles  Second 69 

Matthew  Prior,  1664,  East  Dorset — Wimpolc,  1721 

A  Reasonable  Affliction 69 

The  Remedy  Worse  than  the  Disease 70 

Joseph  Addison,  1672,  Wiltshire — London,  1719 

The  Spacious  Firmament  on  High 70 

To  Mira  on  Her  Incomparable  Poems 71 

Isaac  Watts,  1674,  Southampton — Hertfordshire,  1748 

The  Sluggard 71 

How  doth  the  little  busy  Bee 72 

Our  God,  our  Help  in  ages  past 73 

John  Gay,  1685,  Devonshire — London,  1732 
The  Lion  and  the  Cub 74 

Alexander  Pope,  1688,  London — Twickenham,  1744 

Universal  Prayer 75 

Inscribed  on  the  Collar  of  a  Dog 77 

Epigram 77 

On  a  Certain  Lady  at  Court 77 

Two  Views  of  Addison 

I.  From  the  Epistle  to  Mr.  Addison,  1715 78 

^  From  the  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  1735 78 

Henry  Carey,  1700  (?),  London — London,  1743 

A  Maiden's  Ideal  of  a  Husband 79 

Sally  in  Our  Alley 79 

James  Thomson,  1700,  Scotland — Richmond,  1748 
Rule,  Britannia 81 


Table  of  Contents  ix 

PAGE 

Samuel  Johnson,  1709,  Staffordshire — Loudon,  1784 

If  a  man  who  turnips  cries 82 

On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Robert  Levet 83 

Thomas  Gray,  1716,  London — Cambridge,  1771 
On  the  Death  of  a  Favorite  Cat,  Drowned  in  a  Tub  of  Gold- 

C        fishes 84 
Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard 85 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  1728,  Ireland — London,  1774 
An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog 9° 

William  Cowter,  1731,  Hertfordshire — Norfolk,  1800 

Boadicea,  an  Ode 9^ 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 93 

Epitaph  on  a  Hare 94 

The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin 95 

Thomas  Holcroft,  1745,  London — London,  1809 
Gaffer  Gray io4 

Charles  Dibdin,  1745,  Southamplon— London,  1814 

Tom  Bowling 105 

The  Sailor's  Consolation 106 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  1751,  Dublin — London,  1816 
I  would,  says  Fox,  a  tax  devise 107 

William  Blake,  1757,  London — London,  1827 

The  Lamb lo? 

The  Tiger 108 

^^        Robert  Burns,  1759,  Alloway — Dumfries,  1796 

A  Red  Red  Rose 109 

Jean no 

Bonnie  Doon no 

John  Anderson m 

Mary  Morison 112 

Highland  Mary 112 


X  Table  of  Contents 

PAGE 

To  a  Mouse 113 

For  A'  That  and  A'  That 115 

My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands 116 

Auld  Lang  Syne 117 

Macpherson's  Farewell 118 

Bruce  to  His  Army 119 

Lady  Carolina  Nairne,  1776,  Perthshire — Perthshire,  1845 

The  Laird  of  Cockpen 1 20 

John  Hookham  Frere,  1769,  London — Malta,  1846 

The  Boy  and  the  Wolf 121 

William  Wordsworth,  1770,  Cumberland — Westmoreland,  1S50 

The  Solitary  Reaper 122 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 1 23 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 124 

A  Slumber  did  my  spirit  seal 125 

Written  in  March 125 

The  Influence  of  Natural  Objects 126 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 128 

To  a  Skylark 128 

The  Happy  Warrior 129 

Five  Sonnets 

1.  Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge 132 

2.  Milton,  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour 132 

3.  Thought  of  a  Briton  on  the  Subjugation  of  Switzerland, 

1802 133 

4.  A  Flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 133 

5.  The  World  is  too  much  with  us 134 

Sydney  Smith,  1771,  Essex — London,  1845 

A  Salad 134 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  1771,  Edinburgh — Abbotsford,  1832 

Lochinvar 135 

Proud  Maisie 137 

Rosabclle ' 137 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead 139 

Border  Ballad 14.0 


Table  of  Contents  xi 

PAGE 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  1772,  Devonshire — London,  1834 

An  Epigram 140 

Metrical  Feet;  Lesson  for  a  Boy 141 

Work  Without  Hope 141 

Kubla  Khan 142 

Robert  Southey,  1774,  Bristol — Keswick,  1843 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore 143 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  passed 147 

Joseph  Blanco  White,  1775,  Seville — Liverpool,  1841 

To  Night 148 

Walter  Savage  Landor,  1775,  Warwick — Florence,  1864 

Shakspere  and  Milton 148 

Macaulay 149 

Robert  Browning 149 

Thomas  Campbell,  1777,  Glasgow — Boulogne,  1844 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 150 

Hohenlinden 151 

Thomas  Moore,  1779,  Dublin — London,  1852 

Believe  me  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms 152 

The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 153 

The  Lighr  of  Other  Days 153 

The  Last  Rose  of  Summer 154 

Jane  Taylor,  1783,  London — Essex,  1824 

Contented  John 155 

Allan  CtrNNiNOHAM,  1784,  Dumfriesshire — London,  1842 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea 156 

Leigh  Hunt,  1784,  Middlesex — Surrey,  1859 

The  Glove  and  the  Lions 157 

Sneezing 158 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 158 

Jenny  Kissed  Me 159 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket 159. 


xii  Table  of  Contents 

PAGti 

Barry  Cornwall  (Bryan  Waller  Procter),  1787,  London — 
London,  1S74 

The  Bloodhorse 160 

George    Gordon,   Lord   Byron,    1788,  London — Missolonghi, 
Greece,  1824 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib 161 

The  Eve  of  Waterloo 162 

The  Ocean 164 

She  walks  in  beauty 166 

On  Chillon 166 

Charles  Wolfe,  1791,  Kildarc — Cork,  1823 
The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  after  Corunna 167 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  1792,  Sussex — Spczia,  Italy,  1822 

To  a  Skylark 168 

The  Cloud 172 

Ozymandias 177 

Music,  when  Soft  Voices  Die 177 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 178 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans,  1793,  Liverpool — Dublin,  1835 
Casabianca 181 

John  Keats,  1795,  London — Rome,  1821 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern i8a 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 183 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket 184 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 184 

Hartley  Coleridge,  1796,  Somerset — Westmoreland,  1849 
She  is  not  Fair  to  Outward  View 18^ 

William  Motherwell,  1797,  Glasgow — Glasgow,  1835 
The  Cavalier's  Song 18& 


Table  of  Contents  xiii 

PAGE 

Samuel  Lover,  1797,  Dublin — Jersey,  1868 

Rory  O'More 187 

The  Low-backed  Car 188 

Thomas  Hood,  1799,  London — London,  1845 

I  Remember,  I  Remember 190 

Ruth 191 

No! 192 

To  Minerva 192 

Elizabeth  Turner, ?  England — England,  1846 

PoUteness _ ^93 

William  Douglas  (Dates  and  home  unknown) 
Annie  Laurie ^93 

Thomas  Babington  Lord  Macaulay,  1800,  Leicestershire — Lon- 
don, 1859 
Ivry 194 

John  Henry  Cardinal  Newman,  1801,  London — Liverpool,  1890 
The  Pillar  of  the  Cloud I97 

Elizabeth  B/Vrrett  Browning,  1809,  Durham — Florence,  1861 
Three  Sonnets 

1.  I  Thought  how  once  Theocritus  had  sung 198 

2.  How  do  I  love  thee?    Let  me  count  the  ways 198 

3.  If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 199 

A  Court  Lady i99 

Lord  Alfred  Tennyson,  1809,  Lincolnshire — Surrey,  1892 

Break,  Break,  Break 202 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 203 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead 204 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 205 

-Sir  Galahad 206 

Ulysses 208 

The  Eagle 210 

The  Higher  Pantheism 210 


xlv  Table  of  Contents 

PAGE 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall 211 

The  Brook's  Song 211 

A  Tribute  to  His  Mother 213 

—  Ring  Out  Wild  Bells 214 

— »Crossing  the  Bar 215 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  181  i,  Calcutta — Lotidon,  1863 

Little  Billee 216 

Sorrows  of  Werther 217 

At  the  Church  Gate 218 

The  End  of  the  Play 219 

Robert  Browning,  1812,  London — Venice,  1889 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 221 

How  They  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix 223 

•'Herve  Riel 225 

Pheidippides 230 

Cavalier  Tunes 235 

-»  My  Last  Duchess 23 7 

Tray 239 

Muleykeh 241 

The  Year's  at  the  spring 246 

Epilogue  from  Asolando 246 

Prospice 247 

Edward  Lear,  181 2,  London — San  Renio,  1888 

The  Jumblies 248 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussycat 250 

A  Limerick 251 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  1819,  Liverpool — Florence,  1S61 

Say  not  the  struggle  naught  availeth 251 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 252 

Charles  Kingsley,  1819,  Devonshire — Hampshire,  1S75 
Young  and  Old 253 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson,  1821,  Greenwich — Rowfant,  1895 

A  Terrible  Infant 254 


Table  of  Contents  xv 

PAGE 

Matthew  Arnold,  1822,  Middlesex — Liverpool,  1888 

Shakspere 254 

Requiescat 255 

Self-Dependence 255 

Coventry  Patmore,  1823,  Ward'ickshire — Hampshire,  1896 
The  Toys 256 

Thomas  Edward  Brown,  1830, 7i/e  of  Man — Isle  of  Man,  1897 
My  Garden 258 

Charles  Stuart  Calverley,  1831,  Worcestershire — London,  1884 
The  Alphabet 258 

Lewis   Carroll  (Charles   L.  Dodgson),  1832,  Dareshury — 
Surrey,  1898 

Jabberwocky 259 

The  Gardener's  Song -. 260 

George  du  Maurier,  1834,  Paris — London,  1896 
A  Little  Work 262 

Edward  BowEN,  iSt,6,  Gloucestershire — Coted'  Or,  France,  1901 

Forty  Years  On 263 

Jack  and  Joe 264 

Austin  Dobson,  1840,  Plymouth — 

The  Cure's  Progress 265 

Urceus  Exit 266 

Charles  George  Gordon 267 

William  Morris,  1834,  London — London,  1896 
The  Burghers'  Battle 267 

William  Ernest  Henley,  1849,  Gloucester — Surrey,  1903 

Home 269 

^iivictus 270 


xvi  Table  of  Contents 

PAGE 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  1850,  Edinburgh — Samoa,  1894 

A  Lad  that  is  Gone 271 

The  Vagabond 272 

Heather  Ale 273 

Requiem 276 

William  Watson,  1858,  Yorkshire — 
The  Keyboard 276 

Henry  Charles  Beeching,  1859,  London — 
Going  Down  Hill  on  a  Bicycle 277 

Henry  Newbolt,  1862,  SlaJJordshire — 

Drake's  Drum 278 

Vitai  Lampada 279 

Clifton  Chapel 280 

Rudyard  Kipling,  1865,  Bombay — 

Fuzzy  Wuzzy 281 

A  Ballad  of  East  and  West 283 

The  Explorer 288 

Recessional 292 

L'Envoi 293 

John  Masefield,  Gloucestershire — 

Cargoes 293 

An  Old  Song  Resung 294 

Sea  Fever 294 

Alfred  Noyes,  1880,  Siafordshire — 

A  Song  of  Sherwood 295 

The  Highwayman 297 

The  Admiral's  Ghost 301 

References,  Technical  and  Historical 307 

Introductions  and  Notes 317 

Index  of  Poets.  Titles,  and  First  Lines 361 


BRITISH   VERSE 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

i34o(?),  London-London,  1400 

FROM  THE  PROLOGUE  TO  THE  CANTERBURY 
TALES 

I.  The  Tabard  Inn 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  schowres  swoote 

The  drought  of  Marche  hath  perced  to  the  roote, 

And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  hcour, 

Of  which  vertue  engendred  is  the  flour; 

Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breethe 

Enspired  hath  in  every  holte  and  heethe 

The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 

Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  i-ronne, 

And  smale  fowles  maken  mclodie, 

That  slepen  al  the  night  with  open  eye, 

So  priketh  hem  nature  in  her  corages: — 

Than  longen  folk  to  gon  on  pilgrimages. 

And  palmers  for  to  seeken  straunge  strondes, 

To  feme  halwes,  kouthe  in  sondry  londes; 

And  specially,  from  every  schires  ende 

Of  Engclond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende. 

The  holy  blisful  martir  for  to  seeke. 

That  hem  hath  holpen  whan  that  they  were  seeke. 

Byfel  that,  in  that  scsoun  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay, 
Redy  to  wendcn  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage, 


Geoffrey  Chaucer 

At  night  was  come  into  that  hosteirye 

V/el  nyne  and  twenty  in  a  companye, 

Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  i-falle 

In  felaweschipe,  and  pilgr>'ms  were  they  alle, 

That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde; 

The  chambres  and  the  stables  wcren  wyde, 

And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste. 

And  schortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  to  reste, 

So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everychon, 

That  I  was  of  here  felaweschipe  anon, 

And  made  forward  erly  for  to  ryse. 

To  take  our  wey  ther  as  I  yow  deyyse. 

But  natheles,  whil  I  have  tyme  and  space, 

Or  that  I  forther  in  this  tale  pace, 

Me  thinketh  it  acordaunt  to  resoun, 

To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun 

Of  eche  of  hem,  so  as  it  semede  me. 

And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degre; 

And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  were  inne; 

And  at  a  knight  than  wol  I  first  bygynne. 

II.  The  Knight 

A  Knight  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man, 
That  from  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 
To  ryden  out,  he  lovede  chyvalrye, 
Troulhe  and  honour,  frcdom  and  curteisye. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre, 
And  therto  hadde  he  riden,  no  man  ferre. 
As  wel  in  Christendom  as  in  hethenesse, 
And  ever  honoured  for  his  worthinesse. 
At  Alisaundre  he  was  whan  it  Avas  wonne, 
Ful  ofte  tyme  he  hadde  the  bord  bygonne 
Aboven  alle  naciouns  in  Pruce. 
In  Lettowe  hadde  he  reyscd  and  in  Ruce, 
No  Cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  dcgre. 
In  Gernade  atte  siege  hadde  he  be 


The  Canterbury  Tales 

Of  Algesir,  and  riden  in  Belmarie. 

At  Lieys  was  he,  and  at  Satalie, 

WTian  they  were  wonne;  and  in  the  Greete  see 

At  many  a  noble  arive  hadde  he  be. 

At  mortal  bataiUes  hadde  he  ben  fiftene, 

And  foughten  for  our  fcith  at  Tramassene 

In  lystes  thries,  and  ay  slayn  his  foo. 

This  ilke  worthy  knight  hadde  ben  also 

Sometyme  with  the  lord  of  Palatye, 

Ageyn  another  hethcn  in  Turkye; 

And  evermore  he  hadde  a  sovereyn  prys. 

And  though  that  he  was  worthy,  he  was  wys, 

And  of  his  port  as  meke  as  is  a  mayde. 

He  nevere  yit  no  vUeinye  ne  sayde 

In  al  his  lyf ,  unto  no  maner  wight. 

He  was  a  verray  perfight  gcntil  knight. 

But  for  to  tcllen  you  of  his  array, 

His  hors  was  good,  but  he  ne  was  nought  gay. 

Of  fustyan  he  werede  a  gcpoun 

Al  bysmotcrcd  with  his  habergeoun. 

For  he  was  late  ycome  from  his  viage, 

And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrimage. 

III.  The  Squire 

With  him  thcr  was  his  sonc,  a  young  Squyer, 
A  lovyere,  and  a  lusty  bachelcr, 
With  lokkcs  crullc  as  they  were  leyd  in  presse. 
Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gcsse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  even  Icngthe, 
And  wonderly  delyvcr,  and  gret  of  strengthe. 
And  he  hadde  ben  sometyme  in  chivachye, 
In  Flaundres,  in  Artoys,  and  Picardye, 
And  bom  him  wel,  as  of  so  litcl  space, 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  lady  grace. 
Embrowdcd  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mode 
Al  ful  of  frcsshii  floures,  white  and  reede. 


Geoffrey  Chaucer 

Syngynge  he  was,  or  floytynge,  al  the  day; 

He  was  as  fressh  as  is  the  moneth  of  May. 

Schort  was  his  goune,  with  sleeves  longe  and  wyde. 

Wei  cowde  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  faire  ryde. 

He  cowde  songes  make  and  wel  endite, 

Juste  and  eek  daunce,  and  wel  purtreye  and  write. 

So  hote  he  lovede,  that  by  nightertale 

He  sleep  no  more  than  doth  a  nightyngale. 

Curtcys  he  was,  lowly,  and  servysable. 

And  carf  byforn  his  fader  at  the  table. 

IV.  The  Prioress 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hire  smylyng  was  ful  symple  and  coy; 
Hire  gretteste  ooth  ne  was  but  by  seynt  Loy; 
And  sche  was  cleped  madame  Eglentyne. 
Ful  wel  sche  sang  the  servise  divyne, 
En  tuned  in  hire  nose  ful  semely; 
And  Frensch  sche  spak  ful  faire  and  fetysly, 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe, 
For  Frensch  of  Parys  was  to  hire  unknowe. 
At  mete  wel  i- taught  was  sche  withalle; 
Sche  leet  no  morsel  from  hire  lippes  falle, 
Ne  wctte  hire  fyngres  in  hire  sauce  deepe. 
Wel  cowde  sche  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  keepe, 
That  no  drope  ne  fiUe  upon  hire  breste. 
In  curteisie  was  set  ful  moche  hire  leste. 
Hire  overlippe  wypede  sche  so  clcne, 
That  in  hire  cuppe  was  no  fcrthing  sene 
Of  greece,  whan  sche  dronkcn  hadde  hire  draughte. 
Ful  scmcly  after  hire  mete  sche  raughte. 
And  sikcrly  sche  was  of  grct  disport. 
And  ful  plcasaunt,  and  amyable  of  port, 
And  peynede  hire  to  countrefete  cheere 
Of  court,  and  ben  estatlich  of  manere, 
And  to  ben  holdcn  digne  of  reverence. 
But  for  to  spckcn  of  hire  conscience, 


The  Canterbury  Tales 

Sche  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous, 
Sche  wolde  weepe  if  that  sche  sawe  a  mous 
Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndcs  hadde  sche,  but  sche  fedde 
With  rested  flcssh,  or  mylk  and  wastel  breed. 
But  sore  wepte  sche  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed, 
Or  if  men  smot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte: 
And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte. 
Ful  semely  hire  ^\'ympel  i-pynched  was; 
Hire  nose  tretys;  hire  eyen  greye  as  glas; 
Hire  mouth  ful  smal,  and  therto  softe  and  reed 
But  sikerly  sche  hadde  a  fair  forheed. 
It  was  almost  a  spanne  brood,  I  trowe; 
For  hardily  sche  was  not  undergrowe. 
Ful  fetys  was  hire  cloke,  as  I  was  waar. 
Of  smal  coral  aboute  hire  arm  sche  baar 
A  peire  of  bedes  gauded  al  with  grene; 
And  theron  heng  a  broch  of  gold  ful  schene, 
On  which  was  first  i-write  a  crowned  A, 
And  after,  Amor  vincit  omnia. 
Another  Nonne  with  hire  hadde  sche, 
That  was  hire  chapeleyne,  and  Prestes  thre. 

V.  The  Clerk 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also, 
That  unto  logik  hadde  longe  i-go. 
As  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 
And  he  was  not  right  fat,  I  undertake; 
But  lokede  holwe,  and  therto  soberly. 
Ful  thrcdbare  was  his  overcste  courtepy. 
For  he  hadde  geten  him  yit  no  benefice, 
Ne  was  so  worldly  for  to  have  office. 
For  him  was  levere  have  at  his  beddcs  heede 
Twenty  bookcs,  clad  in  blak  or  reede. 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophic. 
Then  robes  riche,  or  fithclc,  or  gay  sawtrie. 


Geoffrey  Chaucer 

But  al  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre, 
Yet  hadde  he  but  Htel  gold  in  cofre; 
But  al  that  he  mighte  of  his  frendes  hente, 
On  bookes  and  on  lernyng  he  it  spente, 
And  busily  gan  for  the  soulcs  preye 
Of  hem  that  yaf  him  wherwith  to  scoleye, 
Of  studie  took  he  most  cure  and  most  heede. 
Not  oo  word  spak  he  more  than  was  neede, 
And  that  was  seid  in  forme  and  reverence 
And  schort  and  quyk,  and  ful  of  high  sentence. 
Sownynge  in  moral  vertu  was  his  speche, 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne,  and  gladly  teche. 

VI.  The  Parson 

A  good  man  was  ther  of  religioun, 
And  was  a  poure  Persoun  of  a  toun; 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  werk. 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk, 
That  Cristes  gospel  tre\yely  wolde  preche; 
His  parisshens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Benigne  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent, 
And  in  adversitee  ful  pacient; 
And  swich  he  was  y-proved  of te  sythes. 
Ful  looth  were  him  to  cursen  for  his  tythes, 
But  rather  wolde  he  yeven,  out  of  doute, 
Un-to  his  poure  parisshens  aboute 
Of  his  offring,  and  eek  of  his  substaunce. 
He  coude  in  litel  thing  han  suffisaunce. 
Wyd  was  his  parisshe,  and  houses  fcr  a-sonder, 
But  he  ne  lafte  nat,  for  reyn  ne  thondcr. 
In  siknes  nor  in  meschief  to  visyte 
The  fcrrcste  in  his  parisshe,  mochc  and  lyte, 
Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hond  a  staf. 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  scheep  he  yaf, 
That  first  he  wroughte,  and  afterward  he  taughte, 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  wordes  caughte, 


The  Canterbury  Tales 

\nd  this  figure  he  addede  eek  therto, 

That  if  gold  ruste,  what  schal  yren  doo? 

'For  if  a  prest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  truste, 

No  w'onder  is  a  lowed  man  to  ruste; 

And  schame  it  is,  if  that  a  prest  tak  keep, 

A  filthy  schepherde  and  a  clene  scheep; 

Wei  oughte  a  prest  ensample  for  to  yive. 

By  his  clennesse,  how  that  his  scheep  schulde  lyve. 

He  sette  not  his  benefice  to  hyre, 

And  leet  his  scheep  encombrcd  in  the  myre, 

And  ran  to  Londone,  unto  seynte  Poules, 

To  seeken  him  a  chaunterie  for  soules, 

Or  with  a  bretherhede  to  ben  withholde; 

But  dwclte  at  hoom,  and  kepte  wel  his  folde, 

So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  not  myscarye; 

He  was  a  schepherd  and  no  mercenarie. 

And  though  he  holy  were,  and  vertuous, 

He  was  to  sinful  man  nought  dcspitous, 

Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous  ne  digne. 

But  in  his  teching  discret  and  benigne. 

To  drawii  folk  to  hevcn  by  fairenesse; 

By  good  ensample,  this  was  his  busynesse; 

But  it  were  eny  persone  obstinat, 

What  so  he  were,  of  high  or  lowe  estat, 

Him  wolde  he  snybbe  scharply  for  the  nones. 

A  better  preest,  I  trowe,  thcr  nowhcr  non  is. 

He  waytede  after  no  pompe  and  reverence, 

Ne  makede  him  a  spiced  conscience, 

But  Cristes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve. 

He  taughte,  but  first  he  folwede  it  himselve. 


Old  Ballads 


OLD  BALLADS 

SIR  PATRICK  SPENS 
I.  The  Sailing 

The  King  sits  in  Dunfermline  toun, 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine: 

"O  whaur  will  I  get  a  skeely  skipper 
To  sail  this  gude  ship  of  mine?  " 

Then  up  an'  spak  an  eldern  knight, 
Sat  at  the  King's  right  knee: 

"Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor 
That  ever  sailed  the  sea." 

The  King  has  written  a  braid  letter, 
And  sealed  it  wi'  his  hand, 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

"To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 
To  Noroway  o'er  the  faem; 

The  King's  daughter  o'  Noroway, 
'Tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hame!" 

The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

A  loud  laugh  laughed  he; 
The  neist  line  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

The  tear  blindit  his  e'e. 

"O  wha  is  this  has  dune  this  deed. 
And  tauld  the  King  o'  me, 

To  send  us  out,  at  this  time  o'  year, 
To  sail  upon  the  sea? 


Sir  Patrick  Spens 

"Be  it  wind  or  weet,  be  it  hail,  be  it  sleet, 

Our  ship  maun  sail  the  faem; 
The  King's  daughter  o'  Noroway, 

'Tis  we  maun  bring  her  hame." 

They  hoysed  their  sails  on  Monday  morn 

Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may; 
And  they  hae  landed  in  Noroway 

Upon  the  Wodensday. 

II.  The  Return 

"Mak  ready,  mak  ready,  my  merry  men  a'! 

Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn." 
"Now,  ever  alack!  my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm! 

"I  saw  the  new  moon  late  yestreen, 

Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm; 
And  I  fear,  I  fear,  ma  master  dear, 

That  we  sail  come  to  harm!" 

They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three, 
When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  blew  loud. 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

The  ropes  they  brak,  and  the  topmast  lap. 

It  was  sic  a  deadly  storm; 
And  the  waves  cam  owre  the  broken  ship 

Till  a'  her  sides  were  torn. 

"O  whaur  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor 

To  tak'  the  helm  in  hand, 
Until  I  win  to  the  tall  topmast 

And  see  if  I  can  spy  land?" 


lo  Old  Ballads 

"It's  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gude, 

To  tak'  the  helm  in  hand, 
Till  ye  win  up  to  the  tall  topmast, 

But  I  fear  ye'll  ne'er  spy  land." 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step  but  barely  ane, 
When  a  bolt  flew  out  of  the  gude  ship's  side, 

And  the  saut  sea  it  cam'  in. 

"Gae  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Anither  o'  the  twine, 
And  wap  them  into  the  gude  ship's  side 

And  let  na  the  sea  come  in." 

They  fetched  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Anither  o'  the  twine. 
And  they  wapped  them  into  that  gude  ship's  side, 

But  aye  the  sea  cam'  in. 

O  laith,  laith  were  our  gude  Scots  lairds 

To  weet  their  cork-heeled  shoon! 
But  lang  ere  a'  the  play  was  played, 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon. 

And  mony  was  the  feather-bed 

That  flattered  on  the  faem; 
And  mony  was  the  gude  lord's  son 

That  never  mair  cam  hame. 

O  lang,  lang,  may  the  ladies  sit, 

Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand, 
Or  ever  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Come  sailing  to  the  strand! 

And  lang,  lang  may  the  maidens  sit, 
Wi'  their  gowd  kaims  in  their  hair, 

A-waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves. 
For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair. 


Chevy-Chase  II 

O,  forty  miles  off  Aberdour, 

'Tis  fifty  fathoms  deep, 
And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spans 

Wi'  the  Scots  lairds  at  his  feet. 


CHEVY-CHASE 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safeties  all; 
A  woful  hunting  once  there  did 

In  Chevy-Chase  befall. 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 

Earl  Percy  took  his  way; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The  stout  Earl  of  Northumberland 

A  vow  to  God  did  make. 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summer  days  to  take; 

The  chiefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chase 

To  kill  and  bear  away. 
These  tidings  to  Earl  Douglas  came, 

In  Scotland  where  he  lay; 

Who  sent  Earl  Percy  present  word 
He  would  prevent  his  sport. 

The  English  earl,  not  fearing  that. 
Did  to  the  woods  resort. 

With  fifteen  hundred  bowmen  bold, 

All  chosen  men  of  might, 
Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  need 

To  aim  their  shafts  aright. 


12  Old  Ballads 

The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran 

To  chase  the  fallow  deer; 
On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt, 

When  daylight  did  appear; 

And  long  before  high  noon  they  had 

A  hundred  fat  bucks  slain; 
Then,  having  dined,  the  drovers  went 

To  rouse  the  deer  again. 

The  bowmen  mustered  on  the  hills, 

Well  able  to  endure; 
And  all  their  rear,  with  special  care. 

That  day  was  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  woods 

The  nimble  deer  to  take. 
That  with  their  cries  the  hills  and  dales 

An  echo  shrill  did  make. 

Lord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went. 
To  view  the  slaughtered  deer; 

Quoth  he,  "Earl  Douglas  promised 
This  day  to  meet  me  here; 

"But  if  I  thought  he  would  not  come. 

No  longer  would  I  stay;" 
With  that,  a  brave  young  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  earl  did  say : — 

"Lo,  yonder  doth  Earl  Douglas  come, — 

His  men  in  armor  bright; 
FuU  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears 

AH  marching  in  our  sight; 

"All  men  of  pleasant  Teviotdale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweed;" 
"Then  cease  your  sports,"  Earl  Percy  said, 

"And  take  your  bows  with  speed; 


Chevy-Chase  13 

"And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 

Your  courage  forth  advance; 
For  never  was  there  champion  yet, 

In  Scotland  or  in  France, 

"That  ever  did  on  horseback  come, 

But  if  my  hap  it  were, 
I  durst  encounter  man  for  man, 

With  him  to  break  a  spear." 

Earl  Douglas  on  his  milk-white  steed, 

Most  like  a  baron  bold, 
Rode  foremost  of  his  company, 

Whose  armor  shone  like  gold. 

"Show  me,"  said  he,  "whose  men  you  be 

That  hunt  so  boldly  here. 
That,  without  my  consent,  do  chase 

And  kill  my  fallow-deer." 

The  first  man  that  did  answer  make. 

Was  noble  Percy,  he — 
Who  said,  "We  list  not  to  declare, 

Nor  show  whose  men  we  be : 

"Yet  will  we  spend  our  dearest  blood 

Thy  chiefest  harts  to  slay." 
Then  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oath, 

And  thus  in  rage  did  say: — 

"Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  be. 

One  of  us  two  shall  die ; 
I  know  thee  well,  an  carl  thou  art, — • 

Lord  Percy,  so  am  I. 

"But  trust  me,  Percy,  pity  it  were. 

And  great  offense,  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  guiltless  men. 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 


14  Old  Ballads 

"Let  you  and  I  ihe  battle  try, 

And  set  our  men  aside." 
"Accursed  be  he,"  Earl  Percy  said, 

"By  whom  this  is  denied." 

Then  stepped  a  gallant  squire  forth, 
Witherington  was  his  name. 

Who  said,  "I  would  not  have  it  told 
To  Henry,  our  king,  for  shame, 

"That  e'er  my  captain  fought  on  foot, 

And  I  stood  looking  on. 
You  two  be  earls,"  said  Witherington, 

"And  I  a  squire  alone; 

"I'll  do  the  best  that  do  I  may. 
While  I  have  power  to  stand ; 

While  I  have  power  to  wield  my  sword, 
I'll  fight  with  heart  and  hand." 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bows, — 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  true; 

At  the  first  flight  of  arrows  sent. 
Full  fourscore  Scots  they  slew. 

Yet  stays  Earl  Douglas  on  the  bent, 
As  chieftain  stout  and  good; 

As  valiant  captain,  all  unmoved. 
The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 

His  host  he  parted  had  in  three, 
As  leader  ware  and  tried; 

And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 
Bore  down  on  every  side. 

Throughout  the  English  archery 
They  dealt  full  many  a  wound; 

But  still  our  valiant  Englishmen 
All  firmly  kept  their  ground. 


Chevy-Chase  15 

And  throwing  straight  their  bows  away, 

They  grasped  their  swords  so  bright; 
And  now  sharp  blows,  a  heavy  shower, 

On  shields  and  helmets  light. 

They  closed  full  fast  on  every  side, 

No  slackness  there  was  found; 
And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 

Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

In  truth,  it  was  a  grief  to  see 

How  each  one  chose  his  spear. 
And  how  the  blood  out  of  their  breasts 

Did  gush  like  water  clear. 

At  last  these  two  stout  earls  did  meet; 

Like  captains  of  great  might, 
Like  lions  wode,  they  laid  on  lode, 

And  made  a  cruel  fight. 

They  fought  until  they  both  did  sweat, 

With  swords  of  tempered  steel, 
Until  the  blood,  like  drops  of  rain. 

They  trickling  down  did  feel. 

"Yield  thee.  Lord  Percy,"  Douglas  said, 

"In  faith  I  will  thee  bring 
Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  be 

By  James,  our  Scottish  king. 

"Thy  ransom  I  will  freely  give. 

And  this  report  of  thee, — 
Thou  art  the  most  courageous  knight 

That  ever  I  did  see." 

"No,  Douglas,"  saith  Earl  Percy  then, 

"Thy  proffer  I  do  scorn; 
I  will  not  yield  to  any  Scot 

That  ever  yet  was  born." 


i6  Old  Ballads 

With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keen 

Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Earl  Douglas  to  the  heart,- 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow; 

Who  never  spake  more  words  than  these: 
"Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all; 

For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end; 
Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall." 

Then  leaving  life,  Earl  Percy  took 
The  dead  man  by  the  hand; 

And  said,  "Earl  Douglas,  for  thy  life 
Would  I  had  lost  my  hand. 

"In  truth,  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 

With  sorrow  for  thy  sake; 
For  sure  a  more  redoubted  knight 

Mischance  did  never  take." 

A  knight  amongst  the  Scots  there  was 
Who  saw  Earl  Douglas  die. 

Who  straight  in  wrath  did  vow  revenge 
Upon  the  Earl  Percy. 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery  was  he  called, 
Who,  with  a  spear  full  bright. 

Well-mounted  on  a  gallant  steed, 
Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight ; 

And  past  the  EngUsh  archers  all, 

Without  a  dread  or  fear; 
And  through  Earl  Percy's  body  then 

He  thrust  his  hateful  spear. 

With  such  vehement  force  and  might 

He  did  his  body  gore, 
The  staff  ran  through  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth-yard  and  more. 


Chevy-Chase  17 

So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  die, 

Whose  courage  none  could  stain. 
An  English  archer  then  perceived 

The  noble  earl  was  slain; 

He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand, 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree; 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 

To  the  hard  head  drew  he. 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery 

So  right  the  shaft  he  set, 
The  gray  goose-wing  that  was  thereon 

In  his  heart's  blood  was  wet. 

This  fight  did  last  from  break  of  day 

Till  setting  of  the  sun; 
For  when  they  rung  the  evening-bell 

The  battle  scarce  was  done. 

With  stout  Earl  Percy  there  were  slain 

Sir  John  of  Egerton, 
Sir  Robert  Ratcliff,  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James,  that  bold  baron. 

And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sir  James, 

Both  Knights  of  good  account, 
Good  Sir  Ralph  Raby  there  was  slain. 

Whose  prowess  did  surmount. 

For  Witherington  my  heart  is  woe 

That  ever  he  slain  should  be, 
For  when  his  legs  were  hewn  in  two, 

He  knelt  and  fought  on  his  knee. 

And  with  Earl  Douglas  there  were  slain 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery, 
Sir  Charles  Murray,  that  from  the  field 

One  foot  would  never  flee; 


Old  Ballads 

Sir  Charles  Murray  of  Ratcliff,  too, — 

His  sister's  son  was  he; 
Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteemed, 

But  saved  he  could  not  be. 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  like  case 

Did  with  Earl  Douglas  die: 
Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears, 

Scarce  fifty-five  did  fly. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 

Went  home  but  fifty-three; 
The  rest  in  Chevy-Chase  were  slain, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widows  come. 

Their  husbands  to  bewail; 
They  washed  their  wounds  in  brinish  tears, 

But  all  would  not  prevail. 

Their  bodies,  bathed  in  purple  blood. 

They  bore  with  them  away; 
They  kissed  them  dead  a  thousand  times, 

Ere  they  were  clad  in  clay. 

The  news  was  brought  to  Edinburgh, 
Where  Scotland's  king  did  reign. 

That  brave  Earl  Douglas  suddenly 
Was  with  an  arrow  slain: 

"O  heavy  news,"  King  James  did  say; 

"Scotland  can  witness  be 
I  have  not  any  captain  more 

Of  such  account  as  he." 

Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came 

Within  as  short  a  space, 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 

7/as  slain  in  Chevy-Chase: 


Lord  Lovel  19 

"Now  God  be  with  him,"  said  our  King, 

"Since  'twill  no  better  be; 
I  trust  I  have  within  my  realm 

Five  hundred  as  good  as  he. 

"Yet  shall  not  Scots  or  Scotland  say 

But  I  will  vengeance  take; 
I'll  be  revenged  on  them  all 

For  brave  Earl  Percy's  sake." 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  performed 

After  at  Humbledown; 
In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slain 

With  lords  of  high  renown; 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Did  many  hundreds  die: 
Thus  endeth  the  hunting  of  Chevj'-Chase, 

Made  by  the  Earl  Percy. 

God  save  the  king,  and  bless  this  land, 

With  plenty,  joy,  and  peace; 
And  grant,  henceforth,  that  foul  debate 

'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease. 


LORD  LOVEL 

Lord  Lovel  he  stood  at  lu's  castle  gate, 

Combing  his  milk-white  steed; 
When  up  came  Lady  Nancy  Belle, 

To  wish  her  lover  good  speed. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Lord  Lovel?"  she  said, 
"Oh!  where  arc  you  going?"  said  she; 

"I'm  going,  my  Lady  Nancy  Belle, 
Strange  countries  for  to  see." 


^20  Old  Ballads 

"When  will  you  be  back,  Lord  Lovel?"  she  said, 
"Oh!  when  will  you  come  back?"  said  she; 

"In  a  year  or  two — or  three,  at  the  most, 
I'll  return  to  my  fair  Nancy." 

But  he  had  not  been  gone  a  year  and  a  day, 

Strange  countries  for  to  see, 
When  languishing  thoughts  came  into  his  head, 

Lady  Nancy  Belle  he  would  go  see. 

So  he  rode,  and  he  rode  on  his  milk-white  steed. 

Till  he  came  to  London  town, 
And  there  he  heard  St.  Pancras'  bells, 

And  the  people  all  mourning  round. 

"Oh,  what  is  the  matter,"  Lord  Lovel  he  said, 

"Oh!  what  is  the  matter?"  said  he; 
"A  lord's  lady  is  dead,"  a  woman  replied, 

"And  some  call  her  Lady  Nancy." 

So  he  ordered  the  grave  to  be  opened  wide. 

And  the  shroud  he  turned  down. 
And  there  he  kissed  her  clay-cold  lips. 

Till  the  tears  came  trickling  down. 

Lady  Nancy  she  died  as  it  might  be  to-day. 

Lord  Lovel  he  died  as  to-morrow; 
Lady  Nancy  she  died  out  of  pure,  pure  grief, 

Lord  Lovel  he  died  out  of  sorrow. 

Lady  Nancy  was  laid  in  St.  Pancras'  church. 

Lord  Lovel  was  laid  in  the  choir; 
And  out  of  her  bosom  there  grew  a  red  rose. 

And  out  of  her  lover's  a  brier. 

They  grew,  and  they  grew,  to  the  church-steeple  top, 
And  then  they  could  grow  no  higher: 

So  there  they  entwined  in  a  true-lover's  knot, 
For  all  lovers  true  to  admire. 


Barbara  Allen's  Cruelty  2i 


BARBARA  ALLEN'S  CRUELTY 

In  Scarlet  town,  where  I  was  born, 

There  W'as  a  fair  maid  dwelUn', 
Mads  every  youth  cry  Well-a-way! 

Her  name  was  Barbara  Allen. 

All  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 

When  green  buds  they  were  swellin', 

Young  Jemmy  Grove  on  his  death-bed  lay, 
For  love  of  Barbara  Allen. 

He  sent  his  man  in  to  her  then, 

To  the  town  where  she  was  dwellin', 

"O  haste  and  come  to  my  master  dear, 
If  your  name  be  Barbara  Allen." 

So  slowly,  slowly  rase  she  up. 
And  slowly  she  came  nigh  him, 

And  when  she  drew  the  curtain  by — 
"Young  man,  I  think  you're  dyin'." 

"0  it's  I  am  sick  and  very  very  sick, 
And  it's  all  for  Barbara  Allen." 

"O  the  better  for  me  ye'se  never  be, 

Though  your  heart's  blood  were  a-spillin'! 

"O  dinna  ye  mind,  young  man,"  says  she, 
"When  the  red  wine  ye  were  fillin'. 

That  ye  made  the  healths  go  round  and  roum'., 
And  slighted  Barbara  Allen?  " 

He  turned  his  face  unto  the  wall. 
And  death  was  with  him  dealin': 

"Adieu,  adieu,  my  dear  friends  all, 
And  be  kind  to  Barbara  Allen! " 


22  Old  Ballads 

As  she  was  walking  o'er  the  fields, 
She  heard  the  dead-bell  knellin'; 

And  every  jow  the  dead-bell  gave 
Cried  "Woe  to  Barbara  Allen." 

"O  mother,  mother,  make  my  bed, 
O  make  it  saft  and  narrow: 

My  love  has  died  for  me  to-day, 
I'll  die  for  him  to-morrow. 

"Farewell,"  she  said,  "ye  virgins  all, 
And  shun  the  fault  I  fell  in: 

Henceforth  take  warning  by  the  fall 
Of  cruel  Barbara  Allen." 


THE  BAILIFF'S  DAUGHTER  OF  ISLINGTON 

There  was  a  youth,  a  well-beloved  youth. 

And  he  was  a  squire's  son, 
He  loved  the  bailiff's  daughter  dear, 

That  lived  in  Islington. 

Yet  she  was  coy  and  would  not  believe 

That  he  did  love  her  so, 
No,  nor  at  any  time  would  she 

Any  countenance  to  him  show. 

But  when  his  friends  did  understand 

His  fond  and  foolish  mind, 
They  sent  him  up  to  fair  London 

An  apprentice  for  to  bind. 

And  when  he  had  been  seven  long  years, 

And  never  his  love  could  see: 
Many  a  tear  have  I  shed  for  her  sake, 

When  she  little  thought  of  me. 


The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington       23 

Then  all  the  maids  of  Islington 

Went  forth  to  sport  and  play, 
All  but  the  bailiff's  daughter  dear; 

She  secretly  stole  away. 

She  pulled  off  her  gown  of  green, 

And  put  on  ragged  attire, 
And  to  fair  London  she  would  go 

Her  true-love  to  enquire. 

As  she  went  along  the  high  road. 

The  weather  being  hot  and  dry. 
She  sat  her  down  upon  a  green  bank, 

And  her  true-love  came  riding  by. 

She  started  up,  with  a  color  so  red, 

Catching  hold  of  his  bridle-rein; 
One  penny,  one  penny,  kind  sir,  she  said, 

Will  ease  me  of  much  pain. 

Before  I  give  you  one  penny,  sweet-heart, 
Pray  tell  me  where  you  were  born. 

At  Islington,  kind  sir,  said  she, 
Where  I  have  had  many  a  scorn. 

I  prithee,  sweet-heart,  then  tell  to  me, 

O  tell  me,  whether  you  know. 
The  bailiff's  daughter  of  Islington. 

She  is  dead,  sir,  long  ago. 

If  she  be  dead,  then  take  my  horse. 

My  saddle  and  bridle  also; 
For  I  will  unto  some  far  country, 

Where  no  man  shall  me  know. 

O  stay,  O  stay,  thou  goodly  youth, 

She  standeth  by  thy  side; 
She  is  here,  alive,  she  is  not  dead, 

And  ready  to  be  thy  bride. 


24  Sir  Edward  Dyer 

O  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy, 
Ten  thousand  times  therefor; 

For  now  I  have  found  mine  own  true-love, 
Whom  I  thought  I  should  never  see  more. 


SIR  EDWARD  DYER 

i55o(?),  Somersetshire-London,  1607 

MY  MIND  TO  ME  A  KINGDOM  IS 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is; 

Such  present  joys  therein  I  find, 
That  it  excels  all  other  bliss 

That  earth  affords  or  grows  by  kind: 
Though  much  I  want  which  most  would  have, 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

No  princely  pomp,  no  wealthy  store, 

No  force  to  win  the  victory. 
No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 

No  shape  to  feed  a  loving  eye; 
To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall: 
For  why?    My  mind  doth  serve  for  all. 

I  see  how  plenty  surfeits  oft, 
And  hasty  climbers  soon  do  fall; 

I  see  that  those  which  are  aloft 
Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all; 

They  get  with  toil,  they  keep  with  fear: 

Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  bear. 

Content  to  live,  this  is  my  stay; 

I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice; 
I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway; 

Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  supplies: 
Lo,  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king, 
Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 


Two  Sonnets  25 

Some  have  too  much,  3'et  slill  do  crave; 

I  little  have,  and  seek  no  more. 
They  are  but  poor,  though  much  they  have, 

And  I  am  rich  with  Httle  store: 
They  poor,  I  rich;  they  beg,  I  give; 
They  lack,  I  leave;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss; 

I  grudge  not  at  another's  gain; 
No  worldly  waves  my  mind  can  toss; 

My  state  at  one  doth  still  remain: 
I  fear  no  foe,  I  fawn  no  friend; 
I  loathe  not  Ufe,  nor  dread  my  end. 

Some  weigh  their  pleasure  by  their  lust, 

Their  wisdom  by  their  rage  of  will; 
Their  treasure  is  their  only  trust; 

A  cloaked  craft  their  store  of  skill: 
But  all  the  pleasure  that  I  fmd 
Is  to  maintain  a  quiet  mind. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease; 

My  conscience  clear  my  chief  defense; 
I  neither  seek  by  bribes  to  please. 

Nor  by  deceit  to  breed  offense: 
Thus  do  I  live;  thus  will  I  die; 
Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  I! 

EDMUND  SPENSER 

1552,  London-London,  1599 

TWO  SONNETS 

Sweet  is  the  Rose,  but  Grows  upon  a  Brier 

Sweet  is  the  rose,  but  grows  upon  a  brier; 
Sweet  is  the  juniper,  but  sharp  his  bough; 
Sweet  is  the  eglantine,  but  prickcth  near; 
Sweet  is  the  fir-bloom,  but  his  branches  rough; 


26  Edmund  Spenser 

Sweet  is  the  cypress,  but  his  rind  is  tough; 

Sweet  is  the  nut,  but  bitter  is  his  pill; 

Sweet  is  the  broom-flower,  but  yet  sour  enough; 

And  sweet  is  moly,  but  his  root  is  ill: 

So  every  sweet  with  sour  is  tempered  stOl. 

That  maketh  it  be  coveted  the  more; 

For  easy  things,  that  may  be  got  at  will, 

Most  sorts  of  men  do  set  but  little  store. 
Why  then  should  I  account  of  little  pain. 
That  endless  pleasure  shall  unto  me  gain? 

One  Day  I  Wrote  Her  Name  upon  the  Strand 

One  day  I  wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand, 
But  came  the  waves  and  washed  it  away: 
Again  I  wrote  it  with  a  second  hand. 
But  came  the  tide  and  made  my  pains  his  prey. 
"Vain  man,"  said  she,  "that  dost  in  vain  essay 
A  mortal  thing  so  to  immortalize; 
For  I  myself  shall  like  to  this  decay, 
And  eke  my  name  be  wiped  out  likewise." 
"Not  so,"  quoth  I;  "let  baser  things  devise 
To  die  in  dust,  but  you  shall  live  by  fame; 
My  verse  your  virtues  rare  shall  eternize, 
And  in  the  heavens  write  your  glorious  name: 
Where,  whenas  Death  shall  all  the  world  subdue, 
Our  love  shall  live,  and  later  life  renew." 

HOPE  DEFERRED 

Full  little  knowcst  thou,  that  hast  not  tried. 
What  hell  it  is  in  suing  long  to  bide; 
To  lose  good  days,  that  might  be  better  spent, 
To  waste  long  nights  in  pensive  discontent; 
To  speed  to-day,  to  be  put  back  to-morrow. 
To  feed  on  hope,  to  pine  with  fear  and  sorrow; 
To  have  thy  Prince's  grace,  yet  want  her  peers', 
To  have  thy  asking,  yet  wait  many  years; 


A  Selection  from  the  Faerie  Queene      27 

To  fret  thy  soul  with  crosses  and  with  cares, 
To  eat  thy  heart  through  comfortless  despairs; 
To  fawn,  to  crouch,  to  wait,  to  ride,  to  run, 
To  spend,  to  give,  to  want,  to  be  undone. 


A  SELECTION  FROM  THE  FAERIE  QUEENE 

Enforst  to  seeke  some  covert  nigh  at  hand, 
A  shadie  grove  not  farr  away  they  spide, 
That  promist  ayde  the  tempest  to  withstand; 
Whose  loftie  trees,  yclad  with  sommers  pride. 
Did  spred  so  broad,  that  heavens  light  did  hide, 
Not  perceable  with  power  of  any  Starr; 
And  all  within  were  pathes  and  alleles  wide, 
With  footing  worne,  and  leading  inward  farr. 
Faire  harbour  that  them  seems,  so  in  they  entred  ar. 

And  foorth  they  passe,  with  pleasure  forward  led 
Joying  to  heare  the  birdes  sweete  harmony. 
Which,  therein  shrouded  from  the  tempest  dred, 
Seemd  in  their  song  to  scorne  the  cruell  sky. 
Much  can  they  praise  the  trees  so  straight  and  hy, 
The  sayhng  Pine;  the  Cedar  proud  and  tall; 
The  vine-propp  Elme;  the  Poplar  never  dry; 
The  builder  Oakc,  sole  king  of  forests  all ; 
The  Aspine  good  for  staves;  the  Cypresse  funerall; 

The  Laurell,  meed  of  mightie  Conquerours 
And  Poets  sage;  the  Firre  that  weepeth  still; 
The  Willow,  worne  of  forlorne  paramours; 
The  Eugh,  obedient  to  the  benders  will; 
The  Birch  for  shaftes;  the  Sallow  for  the  mill; 
The  Mirrhe  swecte-blceding  in  the  bitter  wound; 
The  warlike  Beech;  the  Ash  for  nothing  ill; 
The  fruitful  Olive;  and  the  Platane  round; 
The  carver  Holme ;  the  Maple  seeldom  inward  sound. 


28  John  Lyly 

Led  with  delight,  they  thus  beguile  the  way, 
Untill  the  blustring  storme  is  overblowne; 
When,  weening  to  returne  whence  they  did  stray. 
They  cannot  finde  that  path,  which  first  was  showne, 
But  wandering  too  and  fro  in  waies  unknowne. 
Furthest  from  end  then  when  they  neerest  weene, 
That  makes  them  doubt  their  wits  be  not  their  owne; 
So  many  pathes,  so  many  turnings  scene, 
That  which  of  them  to  take  in  diverse  doubt  they  been. 


JOHN  LYLY 

1554 (?),  London-London,  1606 
"      CUPID  AND  CAMPASPE 

From  "  Alexander  and  Campaspe  " 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards  for  kisses;  Cupid  paid: 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows, 

His  mother's  doves,  and  team  of  sparrows; 

Loses  them  too;  then  down  he  throws 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on's  check  (but  none  knows  how); 

With  these,  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  then  the  dimple  on  his  chin; 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win: 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes — 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love!  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 

What  shall,  alas!  become  of  me? 


My  True-Love  Hath  My  Heart         29 
SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

1554,  Kent-Netherlands,  1586 

COME  SLEEP!  O  SLEEP,  THE  CERTAIN  KNOT 
OF  PEACE 

Come  Sleep!    O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low! 
With  shield  of  proof,  shield  me  from  out  the  press 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw: 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease ! 

1  will  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me,  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 

A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  Wind  to  light, 

A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head: 

And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right. 

Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me. 

Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 

^UY  TRUE-LOVE  HATH  MY  HEART 

From  the  "  Arcadia  " 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

By  just  exchange  one  for  the  other  given: 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss; 

There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven: 
His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 

My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides: 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 

I  cherish  his,  because  in  me  it  bides. 


30  Michael  Drayton 

His  heart  his  wound  received  from  my  sight; 

My  heart  was  wounded  from  his  wounded  heart; 
For  as  from  me,  on  him  his  hurt  did  light, 

So  still  me  thought  in  me  his  heart  did  smart: 
Both  equal  hurt,  in  this  change  sought  our  bliss, 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

1563,  Warwick-London,  1631 

SINCE  THERE'S  NO  HELP,  COME  LET  US 
KISS  AND  PART 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part, — 

Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me; 

And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart, 

That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free; 

Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows. 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again. 

Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breath. 

When,  his  pulse  failing.  Passion  speechless  lies. 

When  Faith  is  kneehng  by  his  bed  of  death, 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes. 
Now,  if  thou  would'st,  when  all  have  given  him  over, 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  j^et  recover! 

AGINCOURT 

OCTOBER    25,    1415 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 
When  we  our  sails  advance. 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 
Longer  will  tarry; 


Aglncourt  3I 

But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train 
Landed  King  Harry. 


And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marcheth  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour; 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  general  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which,  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride. 
His  ransom  to  provide 

Unto  him  sending; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while 
As  from  a  nation  vile. 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile 

Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then, 
"Though  they  to  one  be  ten 

Be  not  amazed: 
Yet  have  we  well  begun: 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

"And  for  myself  (quoth  he) 
THis  my  full  rest  shall  be: 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me 
Nor  more  esteem  me: 


32  Michael  Drayton 


Victor  I  will  remain 
Or  on  this  earth  He  slain, 
Never  shall  she  sustain 
Loss  to  redeem  me. 

"  Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 
When  most  their  pride  did  swell. 
Under  our  swords  they  fell: 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies." 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vanguard  led; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped 

Among  his  henchmen. 
Excester  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there; 
O  Lord,  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone. 
Armor  on  armor  shone, 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan, 

To  hear  was  wonder; 
That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake: 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham, 
Which  didst  the  signal  aim 
To  our  hid  forces! 


Agincourt  33 

When  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly 
The  EngHsh  archery 

Struck  the  French  horses. 


With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long 
That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing  the  weather; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts. 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw. 
And  forth  their  bilbos  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew. 

Not  one  was  tardy; 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent. 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went^ 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  king, 
His  broadsword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding 

As  to  o'crwhelm  it; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent. 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloster,  that  duke  so  good. 
Next  of  the  roya!  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood 
With  his  brave  brother; 


34  Christopher  Marlowe 

Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight. 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 
Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford  the  foe  invade. 
And  cruel  slaughter  made 

Still  as  they  ran  up; 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  Day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry. 
O  when  shall  English  men 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen? 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry? 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 

1564,  Canterbury-London,  1593 

THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS  LOVE 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields, 
Or  woods  or  steepy  mountain  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks. 

And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 


Tamburlaine  to  Calyphas  35 

By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies; 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull; 
Fair-lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs: 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning: 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 


TAMBURLAINE  TO  CALYPHAS 

Thou  shalt  not  have  a  foot  unless  thou  bear 

A  mind  courageous  and  invincible: 

For  he  shall  wear  the  crown  of  Persia 

Whose  head  hath  deepest  scars,  whose  breast  most  wounds, 

Which  being  wroth  sends  lightning  from  his  eyes, 

And  in  the  furrows  of  his  frowning  brows 

Harbours  revenge,  war,  death,  and  cruelty. 


36  William  Shakspere 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

1564,  Stratford-on-Avon-Stratford-on-Avon,  1616 
UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE 

From  "  As  You  Like  It  " 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun. 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

BLOW,  BLOW,  THOU  WINTER  WIND 

From  "  As  You  Like  It  " 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind. 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 


It  \\  as  a  Lover  and  His  Lass  37 

Heigh-ho!  sing  hcigh-ho!  unto  the  green  holly; 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly: 

Then,  heigh-ho,  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly! 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 

Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot: 

Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 

Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh-ho!  sing  heigh-ho!  unto  the  green  holly; 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly: 

Then,  heigh-ho,  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly ! 

IT  WAS  A  LOVER  AND  HIS  LASS 

From  "  As  You  Like  It " 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
That  o'er  the  green  coni-field  did  pass, 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 

When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding; 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

This  carol  they  began  that  hour, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino. 

How  that  life  was  but  a  flower 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time. 

When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding; 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 


38  William  Shakspere 

And,  therefore,  take  the  present  time 
With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 

When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding; 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 


WHERE  THE  BEE  SUCKS,  THERE  SUCK  I 

From  "  The  Tempest  " 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I: 

In  a  cowshp's  bell  I  lie; 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

A  SEA  DIRGE 

From  "  The  Tempest  " 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes; 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange; 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell. 
Hark !  now  I  hear  them, — ding-dong,  bell. 

HARK,  HARK,  THE  LARK 

From  "  Cymbeline  " 

Hark,  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise. 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chahced  flowers  that  lies; 


Crabbed  Age  and  Youth  39 

And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes: 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise: 
Arise,  arise! 


SILVIA 

From  "  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  " 

Who  is  Silvia?    What  is  she? 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she; 

The  heavens  such  grace  did  lend  her. 
That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness: 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness; 
And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Silvia  is  excelling; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dweUing. 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

CRABB£d  age  and  YOUTH 

From  "  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  " 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth 
Cannot  live  together: 
Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 
Age  is  full  of  care; 
Youth  like  summer  morn, 
Age  like  winter  weather; 
Youth  like  summer  brave, 
Age  like  winter  bare. 


40  William  Shakspere 

Youth  is  full  of  sport, 

Age's  breath  is  short; 

Youth  is  nimble,  Age  is  lame; 

Youth  is  hot  and  bold, 

Age  is  weak  and  cold ; 

Youth  is  wild,  and  Age  is  tame. 

Age,  I  do  abhor  thee; 

Youth,  I  do  adore  thee; 

O,  my  Love,  my  Love  is  young! 

Age,  I  do  defy  thee: 

O,  sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee! 

For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 

FIVE  SONNETS 

When  in  Disgrace  with  Fortune  and  IMen's  Eyes 

When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state. 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate. 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope. 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope. 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee:  and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate: 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

When  to  the  Sessions  of  Sweet  Silent  Thought 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste: 


Five  Sonnets  4I 

Then  can  I  drowTi  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since  cancelled  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanished  sight: 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan. 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before: 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 

All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 

Full  Many  a  Glorious  Morning  have  I  Seen 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide. 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace: 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  mom  did  shine    \ 
With  all-triumphant  splendor  on  my  brow; 
But  out,  alack!  he  was  but  one  hour  mine, 
The  region  cloud  hath  masked  him  from  me  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain  when  heaven's  sun  staineth. 

When  in  the  Chronicle  of  Wasted  Time 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
tn  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights, 
Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best, 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  express'd 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 


42  William  Shakspere 

So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 

Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring; 

And,  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 

They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing: 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 


Poor  Soul,  the  Centre  of  My  Sinful  Earth 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 
Foil'd  by  these  rebel  powers  that  thee  array. 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within  and  suffer  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess. 
Eat  up  thy  charge?  Is  this  thy  body's  end? 
Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store; 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more: 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on  men; 

And  Death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying  then. 


BEFORE  HARFLEUR,  14 15 

From  "  Henry  V  " 

Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends,  once  more; 

Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead! 

In  peace,  there's  nothing  so  becomes  a  man, 

As  modest  stillness  and  humility: 

But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears. 

Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger; 

Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 

Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-fa vor'd  rage. 


To  Cell  a  43 

Dishonor  not  your  mothers:  now  attest, 

That  those  whom  you  called  fathers  did  beget  you: 

Be  copy  now  to  men  of  grosser  blood, 

And  teach  them  how  to  war!  —  and  you  good  yeomen, 

Whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show  us  here 

The  mettle  of  your  pasture;  let  us  swear 

That  you  are  worth  your  breeding,  which  I  doubt  not, 

For  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base, 

That  hath  not  noble  luster  in  your  eyes. 

I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips, 

Straining  upon  the  start.     The  game's  afoot; 

Follow  your  spirit:  and,  upon  this  charge, 

Cry  —  God  for  Harry!  England  and  Saint  Georgel 


BEN  JONSON 

1573,  London-London,  1637 

TO  CELIA 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 
Not  so  much  honoring  thee 

As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 
It  could  not  withered  be; 


44  Ben  Jonson 

But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 
And  sent'st  it  back  to  me; 

Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 
Not  of  itself  but  thee! 


THE  NOBLE  NATURE 

From  "  An  Ode  to  Sir  Lucius  Gary  and  Sir  H.  Morison  " 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere; 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night, — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see, 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 


SIMPLEX  MUNDITIIS 

From  "  Epiccene  " 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  dressed 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed: 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face. 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free: 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 

Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art; 

They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 


To  William  Shakspere  45 

TO. THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BELOVED  MASTER 
WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE,  AND  WHAT  HE 
HATH  LEFT  US 

1564-1616 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakspere,  on  thy  name, 

Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame; 

While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 

As  neither  Man  nor  Muse,  can  praise  too  much. 

'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.    But  these  ways 

Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise; 

For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light, 

Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right; 

Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 

The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by  chance; 

Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise. 

And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seemed  to  raise. 

These  are,  as  some  infamous  bawd  or  whore 

Should  praise  a  matron.    What  could  hurt  her  more? 

But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  indeed, 

Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 

I  therefore  will  begin:  Soul  of  the  age! 

The  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our  stage! 

My  Shakspere,  rise!    I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 

Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 

A  little  further,  to  make  thee  room: 

Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb. 

And  art  alive  still  while  thy  book  doth  live 

And  we  have  wits  to  read  and  praise  to  give. 

That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses, 

I  mean  with  great,  but  disproportioned  Muses; 

For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 

I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers. 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  outshine, 

Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line. 

And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin  and  less  Greek, 

From  thence  to  honor  thee,  I  would  not  seek 


46  Ben  Jonson 

For  names;  but  call  forth  thundering  yEschylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us; 

Pacuvius,  Accius,  hira  of  Cordova  dead, 

To  life  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread, 

And  shake  a  stage;  or  when  thy  socks  were  on, 

Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 

Of  all  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 

Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  show 

To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time! 

And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime. 

When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 

Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm ! 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs 

And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines! 

Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 

As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit. 

The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please; 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie. 

As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all;  thy  Art, 

My  gentle  Shakspere,  must  enjoy  a  part. 

For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be. 

His  art  doth  give  the  fashion;  and,  that  he 

Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat, 

(Such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 

Upon  the  Muses'  anvil;  turn  the  same 

(And  himself  with  it)  that  he  thinks  to  frame. 

Or,  for  the  laurel,  he  may  gain  a  scorn; 

For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  born. 

And  such  wert  thou!    Look  how  the  father's  face 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakspere's  mind  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well-turned,  and  true-filed  lines; 


Shall  I,  Wasting  in  Despair  47 

In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 

As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon!  what  a  sight  it  were 

To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear, 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 

That  so  did  take  Eliza,  and  our  James! 

But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 

Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there! 

Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  with  rage 

Or  influence,  chide  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage, 

Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath  mourned  like  night. 

And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume 's  light. 

ON  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  SHAKSPERE  PREFIXED 
TO  THE  FIRST  FOLIO  EDITION,  1623 

This  figure,  that  thou  here  seest  put, 
It  was  for  gentle  Shakspere  cut; 
Wherein  the  Graver  had  a  strife 
With  Nature  to  outdo  the  life: 
O,  could  he  but  have  drawn  his  wit 
As  well  in  brass,  as  he  hath  hit 
His  face;  the  Print  would  then  surpass 
All  that  was  ever  writ  in  brass. 
But  since  he  cannot.  Reader,  look 
Not  at  his  picture,  but  his  book. 

GEORGE  WITHER 

1588,  Hampshire-London,  1667 

SHALL  I,  WASTING  IN  DESPAIR 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair. 
Die  because  a  woman's  fair? 
Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are? 


48  George  Wither 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May, 
If  she  think  not  well  of  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 


Shall  my  silly  heart  be  pined 
'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind? 
Or  a  well  disposed  nature 
Joined  with  a  lovely  feature? 
Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 
Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be? 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love? 
Or  her  well-deservings  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  my  own? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  Best, 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be? 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die? 
She  that  bears  a  noble  mind, 
If  not  outward  helps  she  find, 
Thinks  what  with  them  he  would  do 
That  without  them  dares  her  woo; 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be? 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair; 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve; 


To  the  Virgins,  to  Make  Much  of  Time    49 

If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 

I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be? 


WILLIAM  BROWNE 

1591,  Devonshire-Devonshfre,  1643 

EPITAPH  ON  THE  COUNTESS  DOWAGER 
OF  PEMBROKE 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse: 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother: 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another. 
Fair,  and  learned,  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

1591,  London-Devonshire,  1674 

TO  THE  VIRGINS,  TO  MAKE  MUCH  OF  TIME 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may. 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying: 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  he's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run. 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 


go  Robert  Herrlck 


That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time. 
And  while  ye  snay,  go  matry: 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime. 
You  may  Tor  ever  tarry. 


DEUGHT  IN  DISORDER 

A  SWEET  disorder  in  the  dress 

Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness: 

A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 

Into  a  fine  distraction: 

An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 

Enthrals  the  crimson  stomacher: 

A  cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 

Ribbons  to  flow  confusedly: 

A  winning  wave,  deserving  note. 

In  the  tempestuous  petticoat: 

A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 

I  see  a  wild  civility: 

Do  more  bewitch  me  than  when  art 

Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 


WHENAS  IN  SILKS  MY  JULIA  GOES 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes. 
Then,  then,  methinks,  how  sweetly  flows 
The  liquefaction  of  her  clothes! 
Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes  and  see 
That  brave  vibration  each  way  free, 
— O  how  that  glittering  taketh  mel 


To  Anthea  $1 


TO  DAFFODILS 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon; 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 

Has  not  attained  his  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hasting  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 

As  you,  or  any  thing. 
We  die 

As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 
Away, 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew. 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


TO  ANTHEA,  WHO  MAY  COMMAND  HIM 
ANYTHING 

Bid  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 

Thy  Protestant  to  be; 
Or  bid  me  love,  and  I  will  give 

A  loving  heart  to  thee. 

A  heart  as  soft,  a  heart  as  kind, 

A  heart  as  sound  and  free 
As  in  the  whole  world  thou  canst  find, 

That  heart  I'll  give  to  thee. 


52  Henry  King 

Bid  that  heart  stay,  and  it  will  stay 

To  honor  thy  decree; 
Or  bid  it  languish  quite  away, 

And  't  shall  do  so  for  thee. 

Bid  me  to  weep,  and  I  will  weep. 
While  I  have  eyes  to  see; 

And  having  none,  yet  will  I  keep 
A  heart  to  weep  for  thee. 

Bid  me  despair,  and  I'll  despair, 
Under  that  cypress  tree; 

Or  bid  me  die,  and  I  will  dare 
E'en  death,  to  die  for  thee. 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  love,  my  heart, 

The  very  eyes  of  me; 
And  hast  command  of  every  part. 

To  live  and  die  for  thee. 


HENRY  KING 

I5g2,  Buckinghamshire-Sussex,  1669 
LIKE  TO  THE  FALLING  OF  A  STAR 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star. 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are. 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue. 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew, 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood. 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood: 
Even  such  is  Man,  whose  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in  and  paid  to  night. 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies. 
The  spring  entombed  in  autumn  lies; 
The  dew's  dried  up,  the  star  is  shot. 
The  flight  is  past, — and  man  forgot. 


The  Pulley  S3 

GEORGE  HERBERT 

1593,  Wales-Wiltshire,  1633 
VIRTUE 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright! 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky— 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night; 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue  angry  and  brave 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul. 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal 
Then  chiefly  lives. 

THE  PULLEY 

\Vhen  God  at  first  made  Man, 
Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by — 
Let  us,  said  He,  pour  on  him  all  we  can; 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 

Contract  into  a  span. 

So  strength  first  made  a  way, 
Then  beauty  flowed,  then  wisdom,  honor,  pleasure: 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that,  alone  of  all  His  treasure, 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lav. 


54  George  Herbert 

For  if  I  should,  said  He, 
Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  My  creature, 
He  would  adore  My  gifts  instead  of  Me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature: 

So  both  should  losers  be. 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness; 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  My  breast. 


THE  BOSOM-SIN 

Lord,  with  what  care  hast  thou  begirt  us  roimd! 
Parents  first  season  us,  then  schoolmasters 
Deliver  us  to  laws;  they  send  us  bound 
To  rules  of  reason,  holy  messengers, 
Pulpits  and  Sundays,  sorrow  dogging  sin. 
Afflictions  sorted,  anguish  of  all  sizes, 
Fine  nets  and  stratagems  to  catch  us  in. 
Bibles  laid  open,  millions  of  surprises; 
Blessings  beforehand,  ties  of  gratefulness. 
The  sound  of  Glory  ringing  in  our  ears: 
Without,  our  shame;  within,  our  consciences; 
Angels  and  grace,  eternal  hopes  and  fears! 
Yet  all  these  fences,  and  their  whole  array, 
One  cunning  bosom-sin  blows  quite  away. 


THE  ELIXIR 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King, 
In  all  things  Thee  to  see. 

And  what  I  do  in  anything 
To  do  it  as  for  Thee- 


On  a  Girdle  55 

All  may  of  Thee  partake: 

Nothing  can  be  so  mean, 
WTiich  with  his  tincture  "  for  Thy  sake," 

Will  not  grow  bright  and  clean. 

A  servant  with  this  clause 

Makes  drudgery  divine; 
Who  sweeps  a  room  as  for  Thy  laws, 

Makes  that  and  th'  action  fine. 

This  is  the  famous  stone 

That  turneth  all  to  gold; 
For  that  which  God  doth  touch  and  own 

Cannot  for  less  be  told. 


EDMUND  WALLER 

1606,  Hertfordshire-Beaconsfield,  1685 

ON  A  GIRDLE 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind; 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  Heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer: 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love. 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass!  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair! 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribbon  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round! 


c;6  John  Milton 


JOHN  MILTON 

1608,  London-London,  1674 

FIVE  SONNETS 
0^  His  Having  Arrived  to  the  Age  of  Twenty-Three 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth, 
Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and- twentieth  year! 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career. 
But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom  shew'th. 

Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the  truth 
That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near; 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  appear, 
That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  endu'th. 

Yet,  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow. 
It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high. 

Toward  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the  will  of  Heaven: 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so. 
As  ever  in  my  great  Task-master's  eye. 

To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell,  ]May  16,  1652 

ON  THE  PROPOSALS  OF  CERTAIN  MINISTERS  OF  THE  COMMITTEE 
FOR   THE   PROPAGATION   OF   THE   GOSPEL 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud 
Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude. 
Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude 
To  peace  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast  ploughed, 

And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  Fortune  proud 
Hast  reared  God's  trophies,  and  His  work  pursued. 
While  Darwen  stream  with  blood  of  Scots  imbrued, 
And  Dunbar  field  resounds  thy  praises  loud, 


Five  Sonnets  57 

And  Worcester's  laureate  wreath.    Yet  much  remains 
To  conquer  still;  Peace  hath  her  victories 
No  less  renowned  than  War;  new  foes  arise, 

Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular  chains. 
Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 
Of  hireling  wolves,  whose  Gospel  is  their  maw 


On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont 

165s 

Avenge,  0  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old. 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks  and  stones, 

Forget  not:  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that  rolled 
]\Iother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.    Their  moans 

The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  Heaven.    Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 

The  triple  Tyrant;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundred-fold,  who,  having  learnt  thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

On  His  Blindness 

Twhen  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  He,  returning,  chide; 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied?" 
I  fondly  ask.    But  Patience,  to  prevent 


58  John  Milton 

That  murmur,  soon  replies:  "  God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gifts.    Who  best 
Bear  His  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best.    His  state 

Is  kingly;  thousands  at  His  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

To  Cyriack  Skinner 

Cyriack,  this  three  years'  day  these  eyes,  though  clear 

To  outward  view  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 

Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  have  forgot; 

Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appear 
Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star,  throughout  the  year. 

Or  man,  or  woman.    Yet  I  argue  not 

Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a  jot 
Of  heart  or  hope,  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Right  onward.    What  supports  me,  dost  thou  ask? 

The  conscience,  friend,  to  have  lost  them  overplied 

In  Liberty's  defence,  my  noble  task, 
Of  which  all  Europe  rings  from  side  to  side. 

This  thought  might  lead  me  through  the  world's  vain  mask 
Content,  though  bhnd,  had  I  no  better  guide. 


AN  EPITAPH  ON  THE  ADMIRABLE  DRAMATIC 
POET,  W.  SHAKSPERE 

What  needs  my  Shakspere  for  his  honored  bones 

The  labor  of  an  age  in  piled  stones? 

Or  that  his  hallowed  reUcs  should  be  hid 

Under  a  star-ypointing  pyramid? 

Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  lame, 

What  need'st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy  name? 

Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 

Hast  built  thyself  a  livelong  monument. 

For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavoring  art. 

Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart 


Why  so  Pale  and  Wan,  Fond  Lover?     59 

Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book 
Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took, 
Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving, 
Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving; 
And  so  sepvilchered  in  such  pomp  dost  lie. 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die. 


SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING 

1609,  Middlesex-Paris,  1642 

WHY  SO  PALE  AND  WAN,  FOND  LOVER? 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame,  this  will  not  move: 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

The  devil  take  her! 


6o  Richard  Lovelace 

RICHARD  LOVELACE 

1618,  Kent-London,  1658 

TO  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  TO  THE  WARS 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase. 

The  first  foe  in  the  field; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  thou  too  shaft  adore; 
I  could  not  love  thee.  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honor  more. 

TO  ALTHEA,  FROM  PRISON 

When  Love  with  unconfincd  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates. 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  to  her  eye. 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 
With  no  allaying  Thames, 

Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 
Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames; 


Under  the  Portrait  of  Milton         \6l 

When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 
When  healths  and  draughts  go  free — 

Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  like  committed  linnets,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty. 

And  glories  of  my  King; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


JOHN  DRYDEN 

1631,  Northamptonshire-London,  1700 

UNDER  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  MILTON  IN  THE 
4TH  EDITION  OF  "PARADISE  LOST,"  1688 

Three  poets  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England,  did  adorn. 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed; 
The  next  in  majesty;  in  both  the  last. 
The  force  of  Nature  could  no  further  go; 
To  make  a  third  she  joined  the  former  two. 


62  John  Dry  den 


A  SONG  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY,  1687 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
This  universal  frame  began: 
When  nature  underneath  a  heap 
Of  jarring  atoms  lay. 
And  could  not  heave  her  head, 
The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

"Arise,  ye  more  than  dead!" 
Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap. 
And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
This  universal  frame  began: 
From  harmony  to  harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound: 
Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

E.xcitcs  us  to  arms. 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger. 
And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double  double  double  beat 
Of  the  thundering  drum 
Cries  Hark!  the  foes  come; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  retreat! 


A  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day  63 

The  soft  complaining  flute, 
In  djdng  notes,  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 
Wliose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation. 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion, 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

But  O,  what  art  can  teach. 
What  human  voice  can  reach, 

The  sacred  organ's  praise? 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race; 
And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place. 
Sequacious  of  the  lyre; 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher: 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given. 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appeared 
Mistaking  Earth  for  Heaven. 

GRAND   CHORUS 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move. 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  Blest  above; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  cruml)ling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die. 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky! 


64  John  Dryden 

ALEXANDER'S   FEAST,  OR,  THE  POWER  OF  MUSIC; 
AN  ODE  IN  HONOR  OF  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY,  1697 

I 

'TwAS  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 

By  Philip's  warlike  son. 

Aloft  in  awful  state 

The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne; 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  arouad, 

Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound, 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned) ; 

The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side 

Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 

In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 

None  but  the  brave 

None  but  the  brave 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair! 

Chorus — Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
None  but  the  brave 
None  but  the  brave 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair! 

II 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  choir. 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky 
And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above — 
Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love! 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed, 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast, 


Alexander's  Feast  65 

Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 

And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  world. 

— The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound! 

A  present  deity!  they  shout  around: 

A  present  deity!  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound: 

With  ravished  ears 

The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

Chorus — With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assutnes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

ui 
The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young: 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes! 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums! 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face: 

Now  give  the  hautboys  breath;  he  comes,  he  comes! 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 
Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Chorus — Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 
Rick  the  treasure, 
Swcei  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 


66  John  Dryden 

rv 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again, 

And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain! 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And,  while  he  Heaven  and  Earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  Muse 
Soft  pity  to  infuse: 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 
By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood; 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
— With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving,  in  his  altered  soul, 
The  various  turns  of  Chance  below; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

Chorus — Revolving,  in  his  altered  soul, 

The  various  turns  of  Chance  below; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 
Afui  tears  began  to  flow. 


The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred-sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 


Alexander's  Feast  67 

War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble, 

Honor  but  an  empty  bubble; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 

Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying; 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 

Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying: 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 

Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee! 

— The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause; 

So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain. 

Gazed  on  the  fair 

Who  caused  his  care, 

And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 

Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again: 

At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 

The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Chorus — The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  j air 
Who  caused  his  care, 

And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again: 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 


Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again: 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain! 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder 
And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark!  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head : 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed  he  stares  around. 
Revenge,  revenge,  Timothcus  cries, 
See  the  Furies  arise ! 


68  John  Dryden 

See  the  snakes  that  they  rear 

How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 

And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes! 

Behold  a  ghastly  band, 

Each  a  torch  in  his  hand! 

Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain 

And  unburied  remain 

Inglorious  on  the  plain: 

Give  the  vengeance  due 

To  the  valiant  crew! 

Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes 

And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 

— The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy: 

And  the  King  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 

Thais  led  the  way 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 

And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy! 

Chorus — And  the  King  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy! 

VII 

— ^Thus,  long  ago. 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 
And  sounding  lyre. 

Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast  from  her  sacred  store 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 


A  Reasonable  Affliction  69 

— Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize 
Or  both  divide  the  crown; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 
She  drew  an  angel  down! 

Gra^I)  Chorus — Ai  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Invcnlress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast  from  her  sacred  store 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  abided  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown 

before. 
— Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize 
Or  both  divide  the  crown; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 
She  drew  an  angel  down! 

JOHN  WILMOT,  EARL  OF  ROCHESTER 

1647,  Oxfordshire-Oxfordshire,  1680 

EPITAPH  ON  CHARLES  H 

Here  lies  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King, 

Whose  word  no  man  relics  on, 
Who  never  said  a  foolish  thing. 

Nor  ever  did  a  wise  one. 

MATTHEW  PRIOR 

1664,  East  Dorset-Wimpole,  17  21 

A  REASONABLE  AFFLICTION 

On  his  death-bed  poor  Lubin  lies: 

His  spouse  is  in  despair; 
With  frequent  cries,  and  mutual  sighs, 

They  both  express  their  care. 


JO  Joseph  Addison 

"A  different  cause,"  says  Parson  Sly, 

"The  same  effect  may  give: 
Poor  Lubin  fears  that  he  may  die; 
His  wife,  that  he  may  live." 


THE  REMEDY  WORSE  THAN  THE  DISEASE 

I  SENT  for  Ratcliffe;  was  so  ill, 
That  other  doctors  gave  me  over: 

He  felt  my  pulse,  prescribed  his  pill. 
And  I  was  likely  to  recover. 

But,  when  the  wit  began  to  wheeze, 
And  wine  had  warmed  the  politician. 

Cured  yesterday  of  my  disease, 
I  died  last  night  of  my  physician. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON 

1672,  Wiltshire-London,  17 19 

THE  SPACIOUS  FIRMAMENT  ON  HIGH 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky. 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame. 

Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

The  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day. 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display, 

And  publishes  to  every  land 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  Moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale; 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  Earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth: 


The  Sluggard  71 

Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  bum, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

WTiat  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
;Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball? 
What  though  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found? 
In  Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice. 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice; 
For  ever  singing  as  they  shine, 
"The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 

TO  MIRA,  ON  HER  INCOMPARABLE  POEMS 

From  the  "  Tatler,"  No.  163 
I 

When  dress'd  in  laurel  wreaths  you  shine, 
And  tune  your  soft  melodious  notes. 

You  seem  a  Sister  of  the  Nine, 
Or  Phoebus'  self  in  petticoats. 

II 

I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing 

(Your  song  you  sing  with  so  much  art), 

Your  pen  was  pluck'd  from  Cupid's  wing; 
For,  ah!  it  wounds  me  like  his  dart. 

ISAAC  WATTS 

1674,  Southampton-Hertfordshire,  1748 
THE  SLUGGARD 

'Tis  the  voice  of  a  sluggard;  I  heard  him  complain, 
"You  have  waked  me  too  soon;  I  must  slumber  again"; 
As  the  door  on  its  hinges,  so  he  on  his  bed 
Turns  his  sides,  and  his  shoulders,  and  his  heavy  head. 


72  Isaac  Watts 

"A  little  more  sleep,  and  a  little  more  slumber"; 

Thus  he  wastes  half  his  days,  and  his  hours  without  number; 

And  when  he  gets  up,  he  sits  folding  his  hands 

Or  walks  about  saunt'ring,  or  trifling  he  stands. 

I  passed  by  his  garden,  and  saw  the  wild  brier 
The  thorn  and  the  thistle  grow  broader  and  higher; 
The  clothes  that  hang  on  him  are  turning  to  rags; 
And  his  money  still  wastes  till  he  starves  or  he  begs. 

I  made  him  a  visit,  still  hoping  to  find 
That  he  took  better  care  for  improving  his  mind; 
He  told  me  his  dreams,  talked  of  eating  and  drinking. 
But  he  scarce  reads  his  Bible,  and  never  loves  thinking. 

Said  I  then  to  my  heart,  "Here's  a  lesson  for  me; 
That  man's  but  a  picture  of  what  I  might  be; 
But  thanks  to  my  friends  for  their  care  in  my  breeding, 
Who  taught  me  betimes  to  love  working  and  reading." 


HOW  DOTH  THE  LITTLE  BUSY  BEE 


How  doth  the  little  busy  bee 
Improve  each  shining  hour, 

And  gather  honey  all  the  day 
From  every  opening  flower! 

How  skilfully  she  builds  her  cell! 

How  neat  she  spreads  the  wax! 
And  labors  hard  to  store  it  well 

With  the  sweet  food  she  makes. 

In  works  of  labor  or  of  skill, 

I  would  be  busy  too; 
For  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still 

For  idle  hands  to  do. 


Our  God,  Our  Help  in  Ages  Past         73 

In  books,  or  work,  or  healthful  play. 

Let  my  first  years  be  passed. 
That  I  may  give  for  every  day 

Some  good  account  at  last. 


OUR  GOD,  OUR  HELP  IN  AGES  PAST 

Our  God,  our  Help  in  ages  past, 
Our  hope  for  years  to  come, 

Our  shelter  from  the  stormy  blast. 
And  our  eternal  home! 

Under  the  shadow  of  Thy  Throne 
Thy  saints  have  dwelt  secure; 

Suflicient  is  Thine  arm  alone. 
And  our  defense  is  sure. 

Before  the  hills  in  order  stood. 
Or  earth  received  her  fame. 

From  everlasting  Thou  art  God, 
To  endless  years  the  same. 

A  thousand  ages  in  Thy  sight 

Are  like  an  evening  gone; 
Short  as  the  watch  that  ends  the  night 

Before  the  rising  sun. 

The  busy  tribes  of  flesh  and  blood, 
With  all  their  lives  and  cares, 

Arc  carried  downwards  by  Thy  flood, 
And  lost  in  following  years. 

Time,  like  an  ever-rolling  stream. 

Bears  all  its  sons  away; 
They  fly,  forgotten,  as  a  dream 

Dies  at  the  opening  day. 


74  John  Gay 


Our  God!  our  help  in  ages  past, 
Our  hope  for  years  to  come, 

Be  Thou  our  guide  when  troubles  last, 
And  our  eternal  home! 


JOHN  GAY 

1685,  Devonshire-London,  1732 

THE  LION  AND  THE  CUB 

How  fond  are  men  of  rule  and  place. 

Who  court  it  from  the  mean  and  base! 

These  cannot  bear  an  equal  nigh, 

But  from  superior  merit  fly. 

They  love  the  cellar's  vulgar  joke, 

And  lose  their  hours  in  ale  and  smoke. 

There  o'er  some  petty  club  preside; 

So  poor,  so  paltry,  is  their  pride! 

Nay,  even  with  fools  whole  nights  will  sit, 

In  hopes  to  be  supreme  in  wit. 

If  these  can  read,  to  these  I  write, 

To  set  their  worth  in  truest  light. 

A  Lion-cub,  of  sordid  mind, 

Avoided  ail  the  lion  kind; 

Fond  of  applause,  he  sought  the  feasts 

Of  vulgar  and  ignoble  beasts; 

With  asses  all  his  time  he  spent, 

Their  club's  perpetual  president. 

He  caught  their  manners,  looks,  and  airs; 

An  ass  in  everything  but  ears! 

If  e'er  his  Highness  meant  a  joke. 

They  grinned  applause  before  he  spoke; 

But  at  each  word  what  shouts  of  praise! 

"Good  gods!  how  natural  he  brays!" 


Universal  Prayer  75 

Elate  with  flattery  and  conceit, 
He  seeks  his  royal  sire's  retreat; 
Forward,  and  fond  to  show  his  parts, 
His  Highness  brays;  the  Lion  starts. 

"Puppy!  that  cursed  vociferation 
Betrays  thy  life  and  conversation: 
Coxcombs,  an  ever -noisy  race. 
Are  trumpets  of  their  own  disgrace." 

"Why  so  severe?"  the  Cub  replies; 
"Our  senate  always  held  me  wise!" 

"How  weak  is  pride,"  returns  the  sire: 
"All  fools  are  vain  when  fools  admire! 
But  know,  what  stupid  asses  prize, 
Lions  and  noble  beasts  despise." 


ALEXANDER  POPE 

1688,  London-Twickenham,  1744 
UNIVERSAL  PRAYER 

DEO   OPT.   MAX. 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored. 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord! 

Thou  Great  First  Cause,  least  understood, 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  Thou  art  good, 

And  that  myself  am  blind; 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 
And,  binding  nature  fast  in  fate 

Left  free  the  human  will. 


'jG  Alexander  Pope 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 
This,  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 

That,  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  blessings  Thy  free  bounty  gives 

Let  me  not  cast  awa}'; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives. 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 

Or  think  Thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round: 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 
Presume  Thy  bolts  to  throw 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I  judge  Thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right.  Thy  grace  impart 
Still  in  the  right  to  stay; 

If  I  am  wrong,  O,  teach  my  heart 
To  find  that  better  way! 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride 

And  impious  discontent 
At  aught  Thy  wisdom  has  denied, 

Or  aught  Thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe. 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show. 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so. 
Since  quickened  by  Thy  breath; 

O,  lead  me,  whercso'er  I  go, 

Through  this  day's  life  or  death! 


On  a  Certain  Lady  at  Court  "jj 

This  day  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot; 

All  else  beneath  the  sun, 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 

And  let  Thy  will  be  done. 

To  Thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space, 

Whose  altar  earth,  sea,  skies, 
One  chorus  let  all  Being  raise, 

All  Nature's  incense  rise! 


INSCRIBED  ON  THE  COLLAR  OF  A  DOG 

I  AM  his  Highness'  dog  at  Kew; 

Pray  tell  me,  Sir, — whose  dog  are  you? 


EPIGRAM 

You  beat  your  pate,  and  fancy  wit  will  come; 
Knock  as  you  please,  there's  nobody  at  home. 


ON  A  CERTAIN  LADY  AT  COURT 

I  Kxow  a  thing  that's  most  uncommon; 

(Envy,  be  silent  and  attend  I) 
I  know  a  reasonable  woman. 

Handsome  and  witty,  yet  a  friend. 

Not  warped  by  passion,  awed  by  rumor; 

Not  grave  through  pride,  nor  gay  through  folly; 
An  equal  mixture  of  good-humor 

And  sensible  soft  melancholy. 

"Has  she  no  faults  then  (Envy  says),  Sir?" 

Yes,  she  has  one,  I  must  aver: 
When  all  the  world  conspires  to  praise  her. 

The  woman's  deaf,  and  does  not  hear. 


; 


78  Alexander  Pope 

TWO  VIEWS  OF  ADDISON 


From  the  "Epistle  to  Mr.  Addison,"  1715 

"Statesman,  yet  friend  to  truth!  of  soul  sincere, 
In  action  faithful,  and  in  honour  clear; 
Who  broke  no  promise,  served  no  private  end. 
Who  gained  no  title,  and  who  lost  no  friend; 
Ennobled  by  himself,  by  all  approved, 
And  praised,  unenvied,  by  the  muse  he  loved." 


From  the  "Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,"  1735 

Peace  to  all  such!  but  were  there  one  whose  fires 
True  genius  kindles,  and  fair  fame  inspires; 
Blest  with  each  talent  and  each  art  to  please, 
And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with  ease; 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone. 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  no  brother  near  the  throne, 
View  him  with  scornful,  yet  with  jealous  eyes, 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise; 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer, 
And,  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneer; 
Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike. 
Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike; 
Alike  reserved  to  blame,  or  to  commend, 
A  timorous  foe,  and  a  suspicious  friend; 
Dreading  e'en  fools,  by  flatterers  besieged, 
And  so  obliging  that  he  ne'er  obliged; 
Like  Cato,  give  his  little  senate  laws. 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause. 
While  wits  and  Templars  every  sentence  raise, 
And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise. 
Who  but  must  laugh,  if  such  a  man  there  be? 
Who  would  not  weep,  if  Atticus  were  he? 


Sally  in  Our  Alley  79 

HENRY  CAREY 

i7oo(?),  London-London,  1743 

A  MAIDEN'S  IDEAL  OF  A  HUSBAND 

--.______  Genteel  in  personage, 

Conduct,  and  equipage, 
Noble  by  heritage. 

Generous  and  free: 
Brave,  not  romantic; 
Learned,  not  pedantic; 
Frolic,  not  frantic; 

This  must  he  be. 

Honor  maintaining, 
Ivleanness  disdaining, 
Still  entertaining. 

Engaging  and  new. 
Neat,  but  not  finical; 
Sage,  but  not  cynical; 
Never  tyrannical. 

But  ever  true. 

SALLY  IN  OUR  ALLEY 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 

There's  none  Hke  pretty  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  land 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 


8o  Henry  Carey 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets, 

And  through  the  streets  does  en*  'em; 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em; 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally! 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by.  I  leave  my  work, 

I  love  her  so  sincerely; 
'My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely: 
But  let  him  bang  his  belh-ful, 

I'll  bear  it  all  for  Sally; 
She  is  the  darUng  of  my  heart. 

And  she  li\-es  in  our  allev. 


Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day — 
And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday; 
For  then  I'm  dressed  all  in  my  best 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  allev. 


My  master  carries  me  to  church. 

And  often  am  I  blamed 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 

As  soon  as  text  is  named; 
I  leave  the  church  in  sermon-time 

And  slink  away  to  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  allev. 


Rule,  Britannia  8l 

When  Christinas  comes  about  again, 

O,  then  I  shall  have  money; 
I'll  hoard  it  up,  and  box  it  all, 

I'll  give  it  to  my  honey: 
I  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound, 

I'd  give  it  all  to  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  and  the  neighbors  all 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally, 
And.  but  for  her.  I'd  better  be 

A  slave  and  row  a  galley; 
But  when  my  seven  long  \-ears  are  out, 

O,  then  I'll  marr>-  Sally; 
O.  then  we'll  wed,  and  then  we'll  bed — 

But  not,  not  in  our  alley! 


JAMES  THOMSON 

1 700.  Scodand-Ridnnondj-x^^S 
RULE,  BRITAXXL\ 

^"rom  **  Alfred  " 

Whzx  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command. 

Arose  from  out  the  arare  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land. 

And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain: 
RuJf,  BriLiniiij.  rul(  tiie  aunr^, 
Britons  ncxr  sk<iU  he  sluz>es. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee 
Musi,  in  their  turns,  to  t>Tants  fall. 

Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish,  great  and  free. 
The  dread  and  envv  of  them  all. 


Samuel  Johnson 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame; 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 

But  work  their  woe,  and  thy  renown. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine; 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 

And  every  shore  it  circles,  thine. 

The  Muses,  still  with  Freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair: 
Blest  Isle!  with  matchless  beauty  crowned, 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair. 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  shall  be  slave  J. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 
1709,'Sraffordshire-London,  1784 

IF  A  MAN  WHO  TURNIPS  CRIES 

If  a  man  who  turnips  cries 
Cry  not  when  his  father  dies, 
'Tis  a  proof  that  he  would  rather 
Have  a  turnip  than  a  father. 


On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Robert  Levet       83 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  ROBERT  LEVET 

A   PRACTISER    OF  PHYSIC 


Condemned  to  Hope's  delusive  mine, 
As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 

By  sudden  blasts  or  slow  decline, 
Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 

Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year, 
See  Levet  to  the  grave  descend. 

Officious,  innocent,  sincere, 

Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  fills  affection's  eye, 
Obscurely  wise  and  coarsely  kind. 

Nor,  lettered  Arrogance,  deny 
Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 

When  fainting  nature  called  for  aid, 
And  hovering  death  prepared  the  blow, 

His  vigorous  remedy  displayed 

The  power  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  misery's  darkest  cavern  known. 
His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh, 

WTiere  hopeless  anguish  poured  his  groan, 
And  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons,  mocked  by  chill  delay. 
No  petty  gain  disdained  by  pride; 

The  modest  wants  of  every  day, 
The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 

His  virtues  walked  their  narrow  round, 
Nor  made  a  pause,  nor  left  a  void; 

And  sure  the  Eternal  IMasler  found 
The  single  talent  wcU  employed. 


Thomas  Gray 

The  busy  day,  the  peaceful  night, 

Unfelt,  uncounted,  glided  by; 
His  frame  was  firm,  his  powers  were  bright. 

Though  now  his  eightieth  year  was  nigh. 

Then,  with  no  fiery,  throbbing  pain, 

No  cold  gradations  of  decay, 
Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain. 

And  freed  his  soul  the  nearest  way, 


THOMAS  GRAY 

1716,  London-Cambridge,  1771 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVORITE  CAT,  DROWNED 
IN  A  TUB  OF  GOLD  FISHES 

'TwAS  on  a  lofty  vase's  side, 
Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dyed 

The  azure  flowers  that  blow; 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind. 
The  pensive  Selima,  reclined. 

Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared; 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 

The  velvet  of  her  paws. 
Her  coat,  that  with  the  tortoise  vies, 
Her  ears  of  jet  and  emerald  ej^cs. 

She  saw,  and  purred  applause. 

Still  had  she  gazed,  but  'midst  the  tide 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide. 

The  Genii  of  the  stream: 
Their  scaly  armor's  Tyrian  hue 
Through  richest  purple  to  the  view 

Betrayed  a  golden  gleam. 


Elegy  ill  a  Countr}"  Churchyard  85 

The  hapless  Nymph  with  wonder  saw: 
A  whisker  first  and  then  a  claw, 

With  many  an  ardent  wish, 
She  stretched,  in  vain,  to  reach  the  prize. 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despise? 

What  Cat's  averse  to  fish? 

Presumptuous  Maid!  with  looks  intent 
Again  she  stretched,  again  she  bent. 

Nor  knew  the  gulf  between.  ) 

(Malignant  Fate  sat  by,  and  smiled.) 
The  slippery  verge  her  feet  beguiled, 

She  tumbled  headlong  in. 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood 
She  mewed  to  every  watery  god. 

Some  speedy  aid  to  send. 
No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirred: 
Nor  cruel  Tom  nor  Susan  heard, ^ 

A  Favorite  has  no  friend ! 

From  hence,  ye  Beauties,  undeceived. 
Know,  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved. 

And  be  with  caution  bold. 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wandering  eyes 
And  heedless  hearts,  is  lawful  prize; 

Nor  all  that  glisters,  gold. 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds. 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds: 


86  Thomas  Gray 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  docs  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid. 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn. 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn. 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke: 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke! 

i'  Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
■       Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave. 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour: 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 


Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard         87 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene  \ 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear:  ^ 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen,  * 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air.  j 

Some  village  Hampden  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smUing  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade:  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 


Thomas  Gray 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply: 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  morahst  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead. 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, — ■ 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 


Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard         89 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  way^vard  fancies  he  would  rove, 

Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn. 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  'customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree; 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he: 

"The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  church- way  path  we  saw  him  borne. 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn:" 

THE   EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  Youth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown. 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 
He  gave  to  Misery  {all  he  had)  a  tear. 

He  gained  from  Heaven  {'twas  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose, 
The  bosom'  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


90  Oliver  Goldsmith 

N 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

172S,  Ireland-London,  1774 
AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG 

From  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  " 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song; 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, — 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, — • 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes: 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, — • 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found. 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends. 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 

The  wondering  neighbors  ran, 
And  swora  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 


Boadicea:  An  Ode  9^ 

The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye: 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light. 

That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied, 
The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 

The  dog  it  was  that  died. 


WILLIAM  COWPER 

1 73 1,  Hertfordshire-Norfolk,  1800 
BOADICEA:  AN  ODE 

62    A.    D. 

When  the  British  warrior  queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods, 

Sought,  with  an  indignant  mien, 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods, 

Sage  beneath  a  spreading  oak 
Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  chief. 

Every  burning  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage  and  full  of  grief: 

"Princess!  if  our  aged  eyes 

Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 
'Tis  because  resentment  ties 

All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

"Rome  shall  perish:— write  that  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt; 

Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorred. 
Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 


92  William  Cowper 

"Rome,  for  empire  far  renowned, 
Tramples  on  a  thousand  states; 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground, — 
Hark!  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates. 

"  Other  Romans  shall  arise 
Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name; 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize, 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

"Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land. 

Armed  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings, 
Shall  a  wider  world  command, 

"  Regions  Cassar  never  knew 
Thy  posterity  shall  sway; 

Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 
None  invincible  as  they." 

Such  the  bard's  prophetic  words, 
Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 

Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 
Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride. 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow, 

Rushed  to  battle,  fought  and  died; 
Dying,  hurled  them  at  the  foe. 

"Ruffians!  pitiles?  as  proud, 
Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due; 

Empire  is  on  us  bestowed, 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you!" 


On  the  Loss  of  the  "Royal  George"       93 

ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  "ROYAL  GEORGE" 

August  29,  1782 

Toll  for  the  brave! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

Fast  by  their  native  shore! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 

Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 
Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 

And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds. 

And  she  was  overset; 
Down  went  the  "Royal  George," 

With  aU  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought, 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tear  that  England  owes 


94  William  Cowper 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 
And  she  may  float  again, 

Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 
And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 

His  victories  are  o'er; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE 

Here  lies,  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue, 
Nor  swifter  greyhound  follow. 

Whose  foot  ne'er  tainted  morning  dew, 
Nor  ear  heard  huntsman's  hallo; 

Old  Tiney,  surliest  of  his  kind, 
Who,  nursed  with  tender  care, 

And  to  domestic  bounds  confined, 
Was  still  a  wild  Jack-hare. 

Though  duly  from  my  hand  he  took 

His  pittance  every  night, 
He  did  it  with  a  jealous  look, 

And,  when  he  could,  would  bite. 

His  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread. 
And  milk,  and  oats,  and  straw; 

Thistles,  or  lettuces  instead, 
With  sand  to  scour  his  maw. 

On  twigs  of  hawthorn  he  regaled. 

On  pippins'  russet  peel; 
And,  when  his  juicy  salads  failed, 

Sliced  carrot  pleased  him  well. 


The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin    95 

A  Turkey  carpet  was  his  lawn, 

Whereon  he  loved  to  bound, 
To  skip  and  gambol  like  a  fawn, 

And  swing  his  rump  around. 

His  frisking  was  at  evening  hours, 

For  then  he  lost  his  fear; 
But  most  before  approaching  showers, 

Or  when  a  storm  drew  near. 

Eight  years  and  five  round-roUing  moons 

He  thus  saw  steal  away, 
Dozing  out  all  his  idle  noons. 

And  every  night  at  play. 

I  kept  him  for  his  humor's  sake. 

For  he  would  oft  beguile 
My  heart  of  thoughts  that  made  it  ache, 

And  force  me  to  a  smile. 

But  now,  beneath  this  walnut-shade 

He  finds  his  long,  last  home, 
And  waits,  in  snug  concealment  laid. 

Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come. 

He,  still  more  aged,  feels  the  shocks 

From  which  no  care  can  save. 
And,  partner  once  of  Tiney's  box. 

Must  soon  partake  his  grave. 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN 

SHOWING  HOW  HE  WENT  FARTHER  THAN  HE  INTENDED  AND 
CAME   SAFE  HOME  AGAIN 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  train-band  captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town. 


96  William  Cowper 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear, 
"Though  wedded  we  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

"To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton, 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

"  My  sister,  and  my  sister's  child, 

Myself,  and  children  three, 
Will  fill  the  chaise;  so  you  must  ride 

On  horseback  after  we." 

He  soon  replied,  "I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one. 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear, 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

"I  am  a  linen-draper  bold, 

As  all  the  world  doth  know, 
And  my  good  friend  the  calender 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go." 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  "That's  well  said; 

And  for  that  wine  is  dear, 
We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own. 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear." 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife; 

O'erjoyed  was  he  to  find. 
That  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent. 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 


The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin    97 

So  three  doors  of!  the  chaise  was  stayed, 

Where  they  did  all  get  in ; 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels, 

Were  never  folk  so  glad, 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath. 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 

Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again; 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came;  for  loss  of  time. 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 
When  Betty  screaming  came  downstairs, 

"The  wine  is  left  behind!" 

"Good  lack!"  quoth  he — "yet  bring  it  me, 

My  leathern  belt  likewise. 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword, 

When  I  do  exercise." 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul!) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 


98  William  Cowper 

Each  bottle  had  a  curhng  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 
To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat, 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed. 
Full  slowl)'^  pacing  o'er  the  stones, 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 
Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 

The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot. 
Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  "Fair  and  softly,"  John  he  cried, 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain; 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright. 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands. 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before. 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  naught; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig: 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 


The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin    99 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 
Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both, 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  aU  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung; 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all ; 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  "Well  done!" 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin— who  but  he? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around; 
"He  carries  weight!"    "He  rides  a  race!" 

"  'Tis  for  a  thousand  pound!" 

And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

'Twas  wonderful  to  view. 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike-men 

Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low. 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road, 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  Hanks  to  smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced; 
For  all  might  see  tlie  bottle-necks 

Still  dangUng  at  his  waist. 


lOO  William  Cowper 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 

These  gambols  he  did  play, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay; 

And  there  he  threw  the  Wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  espied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

"Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin! — Here's  the  house!" 

They  all  at  once  did  cry; 
"The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired;" — 

Said  Gilpin — "So  am  I." 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there! 
For  why? — his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware, 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew. 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will. 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbor  in  such  trim, 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him : 


The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin     loi 

^'WTiat  news?  what  news?  your  tidings  tell; 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all?  " 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit 

And  loved  a  timely  joke; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke: 

"I  came  because  your  horse  would  come, 

And,  if  I  well  forbode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here,— 

They  are  upon  the  road." 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin. 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word 

But  to  the  house  went  in; 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig; 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

Thus  showed  his  ready  wit, 
"My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours. 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

•'But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 

That  hangs  upon  your  face; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John,  "It  is  my  wedding-day, 

And  all  the  world  would  stare, 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 


?02  William  Cowper 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

"I  am  in  haste  to  dine; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine." 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast! 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear; 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar. 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig: 

He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first; 
For  why?— they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 
Her  husband  posting  down 

Into  the  country  far  away, 
She  pulled  out  half-a-crown; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said 
That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 

"This  shall  be  yours,  when  you  bring  back 
My  husband  safe  and  well." 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain: 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 
And  gladly  would  have  done, 

The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 
And  made  him  faster  run. 


The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin     103 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  postboy  at  his  heels, 
The  postboy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  postboy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry : 

"Stop  thief!  stop  thief! — a  highwayman!" 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space; 
The  toll-men  thinking,  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too. 

For  he  got  first  to  town; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  Long  live  the  king! 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he! 
And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad 

May  I  be  there  to  see! 


I04  Thomas  Hoi  croft 

THOMAS  HOLCROFT 

1745,  London-Lctidon,  1809 

^       GAFFER  GRAY 

"Ho!  why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake, 

Gaffer  Gray, 

And  why  doth  thy  nose  look  so  blue?" 

"  'Tis  the  weather  that's  cold, 

'Tis  I'm  grown  very  old, 

And  my  doublet  is  not  very  new, 

Well-a-day!" 

"Then  line  that  warm  doublet  with  ale, 

Gaffer  Gray, 
And  warm  thy  old  heart  with  a  glass." 
"Nay,  but  credit  I've  none, 
And  my  money's  aU  gone; 
Then  say  how  may  that  come  to  pass? 
WeU-a-day!" 

"  Hie  away  to  the  house  on  the  brow, 

Gaffer  Gray, 
And  knock  at  the  jolly  priest's  door." 
"The  priest  often  preaches 
Against  worldly  riches. 
But  ne'er  gives  a  mite  to  the  poor, 
Well-a-day!" 

"The  lawyer  lives  under  the  hill. 

Gaffer  Gray, 
Warmly  fenced  both  in  back  and  in  front." 
"He  will  fasten  his  locks, 
And  will  threaten  the  stocks. 
Should  he  evermore  find  me  in  want. 
Wcll-a-day!" 


Tom  Bowling  105 

"The  squire  has  fat  beeves  and  brown  ale, 

Gaffer  Gray, 
And  the  season  will  welcome  you  there." 
"His  fat  beeves  and  his  beer, 
And  his  merry  new  year, 
Are  all  for  the  flush  and  the  fair, 
WeU-a-day!" 

"My  keg  is  but  low,  I  confess, 

Gaffer  Gray, 
What  then?    While  it  lasts,  man,  we'll  live." 
"The  poor  man  alone. 
When  he  hears  the  poor  moan, 
Of  his  morsel  a  morsel  will  give, 
Well-a-day." 


CHARLES  DIBDIN 

1745,  Southampton-London,  1814 

TOM  BOWLING 

Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 

The  darUng  of  our  crew; 
No  more  he'll  hear  the  tempest  howUng, 

For  death  has  broached  him  to. 
His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beauty, 

His  heart  was  kind  and  soft; 
Faithful,  below,  he  did  his  duty; 

But  now  he's  gone  aloft. 

Tom  never  from  his  word  departed. 

His  virtues  were  so  rare; 
His  friends  were  many  and  true-hearted, 

His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair: 


.Io6  Charles  Dibdin 

And  then  he'd  sing,  so  blithe  and  jolly, 

Ah,  many's  the  time  and  oft! 
But  mirth  is  turned  to  melancholy, 

For  Tom  is  gone  aloft. 

Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find  pleasant  weather. 

When  He,  who  aU  commands, 
Shall  give,  to  call  Life's  crew  together, 

The  word  to  "pipe  all  hands." 
Thus  Death,  who  Kings  and  Tars  despatches. 

In  vain  Tom's  life  has  doffed; 
For,  though  his  body's  under  hatches, 

His  soul  is  gone  aloft. 

THE  SAILOR'S  CONSOLATION 

One  night  came  on  a  hurricane. 

The  sea  was  mountains  rolling. 
When  Barney  Buntline  turned  his  quid. 

And  said  to  Billy  Bowling, 
"A  strong  nor'wester's  blowing,  Bill; 

Hark!  don't  ye  hear  it  roar,  now? 
Lord  help  'em,  how  I  pities  them 

Unhappy  folks  on  shore  now! 

"  Foolhardy  chaps  who  live  in  towns, 

What  danger  they  are  all  in. 
And  now  lie  quaking  in  their  beds. 

For  fear  the  roof  should  fall  in ; 
Poor  creatures!  how  they  envies  us. 

And  wishes,  I've  a  notion. 
For  our  good  luck,  in  such  a  storm, 

To  be  upon  the  ocean! 

"And  as  for  them  who're  out  all  day 
On  business  from  their  houses, 

And  late  at  night  are  coming  home. 
To  cheer  their  babes  and  spouses, — 


The  Lamb  107 

While  you  and  I,  Bill,  on  the  deck 

Are  comfortably  lying, 
My  eyes!  what  tiles  and  chimney-pots 
About  their  heads  are  flying! 

"And  very  often  have  we  heard 

How  men  are  killed  and  undone 
By  overturns  of  carriages. 

By  thieves,  and  fires  in  London; 
We  know  what  risks  all  landsmen  run, 

From  noblemen  to  tailors; 
Then,  Bill,  let  us  thank  Providence 

That  you  and  I  are  sailors." 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN 

"     1751J  Dublin-London,  1816 

"I  WOULD,"  SAYS  FOX,  "A  TAX  DEVISE" 

"I  WOULD,"  says  Fox,  "a  tax  devise 
That  shall  not  fall  on  me." 
"Then  tax  receipts,"  Lord  North  replies, 
"  For  those  you  never  see." 

WILLIAM  BLAKE 

1757,  London-London,  1827 
THE  LAMB 

From  "  Songs  of  Innocence  " 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee? 
Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee, 
Gave  thee  life,  and  bade  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead; 


Io8  William  Blake 

Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, 
Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice? 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 

Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee, 
Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee; 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  Himself  a  Lamb. 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild; 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child,  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee! 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee. 


THE  TIGER 

From  "  Songs  of  Experience  " 

Tiger!  Tiger!  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  and  what  dread  feet? 


A  Red,  Red  Rose  109 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see? 
Did  He  who  made  the  Lamb,  make  thee? 

Tiger!  Tiger!  burning  bright. 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 


ROBERT  BURNS 

1759,  Alloway-Dumfries,  1796 

A  RED,   RED   ROSE 

O,  MY  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June; 

O,  my  luve's  like  the  melodic 
That's  sweetly  played  in  tune. 

As  fair  thou  art,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I; 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun; 

•I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 


no  Robert  Burns 

And  fare-thee-weel,  my  only  luve! 

And  fare-thee-weel  a  while! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 

Though  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


JEAN 

Or  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 

I  dearly  lo'e  the  west. 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best: 
There's  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  monie  a  hill  between ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair: 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air: 
There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green. 
There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 


BONNIE  DOON 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fair! 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care! 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  upon  the  bough; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days- 

When  my  fause  Luve  was  true. 


John  Anderson  m 

Thou'U  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine. 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love; 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree; 
And  my  f  ause  luver  staw  the  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


JOHN  ANDERSON 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquent 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven. 
Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent; 
But  now  your  brow  is  bald,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snow; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither. 

And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi  ane  anithcr: 

Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go. 

And  we'll  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


112  Robert  Burns 

MARY  MORISOX 

0  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wished,  the  ttysted  hour! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor: 
How  bhthely  wad  I  bide  the  stour 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun. 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison! 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha', 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw: 

Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 

1  sighed,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"Ye  arena  Mary  Morison." 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  dee? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  lovnng  thee? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wiltna  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown; 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mar>'  Morison. 

HIGHLAND  IvIARY 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery', 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes. 

And  there  the  langest  tany; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 


To  a  Mouse  ii, 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel's  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  Ufa 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

W"i'  mony  a  vow  and  locked  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder; 
But.  01  fell  Death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipped  my  flower  sae  early! 
Now  green's  the  sod.  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mar>-I 

O  pale,  pale  now.  those  rosy  Ups, 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly; 
And  moldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  ;Mar>'. 


TO  A  MOUSE 

ON  TITRNIXG  UP  HER    XEST  WITH  THE  PLOW,   NON'EilBER,    1 785 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breasdel 
Thou  need  na  start  awa'  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle  I 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'ring  p)attlel 


114  Robert  Burns 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor,  earth-born  companion^ 

An'  fellow-mortal! 

I  doubt  na,  whiles,  but  thou  may  thieve; 
What  then?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request; 
I'll  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  lave. 

And  never  miss't! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin'! 
An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  green! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin', 

Baith  snell  an'  keen! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, — 
Till,  crash!  the  cruel  coulter  passed 

Out  through  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble! 
Now  thou's  turned  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

An'  cranreuch  cauld! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane. 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain: 


For  a' That  and  a' That  US 

The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men, 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
An'  lea'e  us  naught  but  grief  an'  pain, 

For  promised  joy! 

Still  thou  are  blest,  compared  wi'  me! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee: 
But,  och!  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear! 
An'  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear! 


FOR  A'  THAT  AND  A'  THAT 

Is  there,  for  honest  Poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that! 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by. 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Our  toil  obscure,  and  a'  that; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 

The  Man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodden  gray,  and  a'  that; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that; 

Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that; 


Ii6  Robert  Burns 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  ribbon,  star,  and  a'  that; 

The  man  o'  independent  mind. 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith,  he  maunna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, — • 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, — • 
That  Sense  and  Worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that, — 
That  Man  to  Man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that! 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here; 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer; 
A-chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, — 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 

Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birthplace  of  valor,  the  country  of  worth; 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I  love. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  covered  with  snow; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below; 


Auld  Lang  Syne  117 

Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods. 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here; 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer, 
A-chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe,— 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 

AULD  LANG  SYNE 
I 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  mind? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  auld  lang  syne? 


And  surely  you'll  be  your  pint-stoup. 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine, 
And  we'll  talc  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

Ill 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes. 
And  pou'd  the  gowans  fine. 

But  we've  wandered  monie  a  weary  fit 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

IV 

We  twa  hae  paidl'd  in  the  burn 
Frac  morning  sun  till  dine, 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 


Il8  Robert  Burns 


And  there's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine, 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid-willie  waught 

For  auld  lang  syne ! 

CHORUS 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne! 


MACPHERSON'S  FAREWELL 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong. 

The  wretch's  destinie! 
Macpherson's  time  will  not  be  long 

On  yonder  gallows  tree. 

O  what  is  death  but  parting  breath? 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 
I've  dared  his  face;  and  in  this  place 

I  scorn  him  yet  again! 

Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands, 

And  bring  to  me  my  sword, 
And  there's  no  man  in  all  Scotland, 

But  I'll  brave  him  at  a  word. 

I've  lived  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife; 

I  die  by  treacherie; 
It  burns  my  heart  I  must  depart 

And  not  avenged  be. 


Bruce  to  His  Army  119 

Now  farewell  light,  thou  sunshine  bright, 

And  all  beneath  the  sky! 
May  coward  shame  distain  his  name, 

The  wretch  that  dare  not  die. 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he; 
He  played  a  spring,  and  danced  it  round. 

Below  the  gallows-tree. 

BRUCE  TO  HIS  ARMY  AT  BANNOCKBURN 

Scots,  wha  ha'e  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  often  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  victory! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour, 
See  the  front  of  battle  lour; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power, 
Chains  and  slavery! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor-knave? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee! 

Wha,  for  Scotland's  king  and  law. 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw. 
Freeman  stand  or  freeman  fa'. 
Let  him  follow  me! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains 

By  your  sons  in  servile  chains! 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free! 


I20  Lady  Carolina  Nairne 


Lay  the  proud  usurper  low! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow, 
Let  us  do,  or  die! 


LADY  CAROLINA  NAIRNE 

1766,  Perthshire-Perthshire,  1845 

THE  LAIRD   O'   COCKPEN 

The  Laird  o'  Cockpen,  he's  proud  and  he's  great; 
His  mind  is  ta'en  up  wi'  things  o'  the  State; 
He  wanted  a  wife,  his  braw  house  to  keep; 
But  favor  wi'  wooin'  was  fashous  to  seek. 

Doun  by  the  dyke-side  a  lady  did  dwell, 
At  his  table-head  he  thought  she'd  look  well, — 
M'Clish's  ae  daughter  o'  Claverse-ha'  Lee. 
A  penniless  lass  wi'  a  lang  pedigree. 

His  wig  was  well-pouthered,  as  guid  as  when  new, 
His  waistcoat  was  white,  his  coat  it  was  blue; 
He  put  on  a  ring,  a  sword,  and  cocked  hat, — 
And  wha  could  refuse  the  Laird  wi'  a'  that! 


He  took  the  gray  mare,  and  rade  cannily. 
And  rapped  at  the  yett  o'  Claverse-ha'  Lee; 
"Gae  tell  Mistress  Jean  to  come  speedily  ben, — 
She's  wanted  to  speak  wi'  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen." 

Mistress  Jean  she  was  makin'  the  elder-flower  wine. 
"And  what  brings  the  Laird  at  sic  a  like  time?" 
She  put  aff  her  apron,  and  on  her  silk  goun, 
Her  mutch  wi'  red  ribbons,  and  gaed  awa'  doun. 


The  Boy  and  the  Wolf  121 

And  when  she  cam'  ben,  he  bowed  fu'  low; 
And  what  was  his  errand  he  soon  let  her  know. 
Amazed  was  the  Laird  when  the  lady  said,  "Na," 
And  wi'  a  laigh  curtsie  she  turned  awa'. 

Dumfoundered  he  was,  but  nae  sigh  did  he  gi'e; 
He  mounted  his  mare,  and  rade  cannily; 
And  aften  he  thought,  as  he  gaed  through  the  glen, 
"She's  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen!" 

JOHN  HOOKHAM   FRERE 

1769,  London-Malta,  1846 

THE  BOY  AND   THE  WOLF 

A  LITTLE  Boy  was  set  to  keep 

A  little  flock  of  goats  or  sheep; 

He  thought  the  task  too  soUtary, 

And  took  a  strange  perverse  vagary: 

To  call  the  people  out  of  fun, 

To  see  them  leave  their  work  and  run. 

He  cried  and  screamed  with  all  his  might,  — 

"Wolf!  wolf!"  in  a  pretended  fright. 

Some  people,  working  at  a  distance, 

Came  running  in  to  his  assistance. 

They  searched  the  fields  and  bushes  round, 

The  Wolf  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

The  Boy,  delighted  with  his  game, 

A  few  days  after  did  the  same, 

And  once  again  the  people  came. 

The  trick  was  many  times  repeated. 

At  last  they  found  that  they  were  cheated. 

One  day  the  Wolf  appeared  in  sight. 

The  Boy  was  in  a  real  fright. 

He  cried,  "Wolf!  wolf!"— the  neighbors  heard. 

But  not  a  single  creature  stirred. 


122  William  Wordsworth 

"We  need  not  go  from  our  employ, — ■ 
'Tis  nothing  but  that  idle  boy." 
The  little  Boy  cried  out  again, 
"Help,  help!  the  Wolf!"  he  cried  in  vain. 
At  last  his  master  came  to  beat  him. 
He  came  too  late,  the  Wolf  had  eat  him. 

This  shows  the  bad  effect  of  lying, 

And  likewise  of  continual  crying. 

If  I  had  heard  you  scream  and  roar, 

For  nothing,  twenty  times  before. 

Although  you  might  have  broke  your  arm, 

Or  met  with  any  serious  harm, 

Your  cries  could  give  me  no  alarm; 

They  would  not  make  me  move  the  faster, 

Nor  apprehend  the  least  disaster; 

I  should  be  sorry  when  I  came. 

But  you  yourself  would  be  to  blame. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

1770,  Cumberland-Westmoreland,  1850 

THE   SOLITARY  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain; 
O  listen!  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 


She  Was  a  Phantom  of  DeHght        123 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt 
Among  Arabian  sands: 
A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago: 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; — 
I  listened,  motionless  and  still; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore. 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight, 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair; 
Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 


124  William  Wordsworth 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too! 
Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin  liberty; 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
-For  human  nature's  daily  food; 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel-light. 

SHE   DWELT  AMONG  THE  UNTRODDEN  WAYS 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love: 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye; 
Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh. 

The  difference  to  me! 


Written  in  March  125 


A  SLUMBER  DID   MY  SPIRIT  SEAL 

A  SLUMBER  did  my  spirit  seal; 

I  had  no  human  fears: 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees; 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course, 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 


WRITTEN  IN  MARCH 

The  Cock  is  crowing, 

The  stream  is  flowing. 

The  small  birds  twitter, 

The  lake  doth  gUtter, 
The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun; 

The  oldest  and  youngest 

Are  at  work  with  the  strongest; 

The  cattle  are  grazing, 

Their  heads  never  raising; 
There  are  forty  feeding  like  one! 

Like  an  army  defeated 

The  snow  hath  retreated. 

And  now  doth  fare  ill 

On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill; 
The  ploughboy  is  whooping — anon — anon 

There's  joy  in  the  mountains; 

There's  life  in  the  fountains; 

Small  clouds  are  sailing, 

Blue  sky  prevailing; 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone! 


126  William  Wordsworth 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  NATURAL  OBJECTS 

IN  CALLING   FORTH  AND   STRENGTHENING  THE  IMAGINATION   IN 
BOYHOOD   AND    EARLY   YOUTH 

Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  Universe! 

Thou  Soul,  that  art  the  Eternity  of  thought, 

And  givcst  to  forms  and  images  a  breath 

And  everlasting  motion,  not  in  vain, 

By  day  or  star-light,  thus  from  my  first  dawn 

Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 

The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul; 

Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  man, 

But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things, 

With  life  and  nature — purifying  thus 

The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 

And  sanctifying  by  such  discipline 

Both  pain  and  fear, — until  we  recognise 

A  grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart. 

Nor  was  this  fellowship  vouchsafed  to  me 

With  stinted  kindness.    In  November  days. 

When  vapours  rolling  down  the  valleys  made 

A  lonely  scene  more  lonesome;  among  woods 

At  noon;  and  'mid  the  calm  of  summer  nights, 

When,  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling  lake. 

Beneath  the  gloomy  hills,  I  homeward  went 

In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine: 

'Twas  mine  among  the  fields  both  day  and  night, 

And  by  the  waters,  all  the  summer  long. 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 

Was  set,  and,  visible  for  many  a  mile, 

The  cottage  windows  through  the  twilight  blazed, 

I  heeded  not  the  summons  :^happy  time 

It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us;  for  me 

It  was  a  time  of  rapture!     Clear  and  loud 


The  Influence  of  Natural  Objects       127 

The  village  clock  tolled  six— I  wheeled  about, 

Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untried  horse 

That  cares  not  for  his  home.     All  shod  with  steel 

We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice,  in  games 

Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 

And  v>oodland  pleasures,— the  resounding  horn. 

The  pack  loud-bellowing,  and  the  hunted  hare. 

So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 

And  not  a  voice  was  idle:  with  the  din 

Meanwhile  the  precipices  rang  aloud; 

The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 

Tinkled  Hke  iron;  while  the  distant  hills 

Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 

Of  melancholy,  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars, 

Eastward,  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 

The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 

Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 

Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 

Glanced  sideways,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng. 

To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star; 

Image,  that,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 

Upon  the  glassy  plain:  and  oftentimes. 

When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 

And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 

Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 

The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 

Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels. 

Stopped  short;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 

Wheeled  by  me — even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 

With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round! 

Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 

Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  stood  and  watched 

Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  summer  sea. 


128  William  Wordsworth 


I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A  CLOUD 

I  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees. 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never  ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company: 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought: 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


TO  A  SKYLARK 

Ethereal  minstrel!  pilgrim  of  the  sky! 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound? 
Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground? 


The  Happy  Warrior  129 

Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still! 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond, 

Mount,  daring  warbler! — that  love-prompted  strain 

— 'Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond — • 

Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain: 

Yet  might'st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege!  to  sing 

All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine. 

Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 

Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine: 

Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never  roam — 

True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home! 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?    Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be? 
— It  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish  thought; 
Whose  high  endeavours  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright; 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care; 
Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 
And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower; 


130  William  Wordsworth 

Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 

Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives; 

By  objects,  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 

Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate; 

Is  placable — because  occasions  rise 

So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice; 

More  skilful  in  self-knowledge;  even  more  pure, 

As  tempted  more;  more  able  to  endure, 

As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress; 

Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

— 'Tis  he  whose  law  is  reason ;  who  depends 

Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends; 

Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 

To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 

Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 

He  fixes  good  on  good  alone,  and  owes 

To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows; 

— Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command, 

Rises  by  open  means;  and  there  will  stand 

On  honourable  terms,  or  else  retire. 

And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire; 

Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 

Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim; 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 

For  wealth,  or  honours,  or  for  worldly  state; 

Whom  they  must  follow;  on  whose  head  must  fall, 

Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all; 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind. 

Is  happy  as  a  Lover;  and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  Man  inspired; 


The  Happy  Warrior  131 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 

In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw; 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need; 

— He  who,  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 

And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence. 

Is  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 

To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes; 

Sweet  images!  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 

Are  at  his  heart;  and  such  fidelity 

It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve; 

More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love: — ■ 

'Tis,  finally,  the  man,  who,  lifted  high, 

Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 

Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity, — 

Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot. 

Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not — 

Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 

Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won; 

Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 

Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray; 

Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 

Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 

From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpassed; 

Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 

For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 

Or  he  must  fall,  to  sleep  without  his  fame. 

And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name — ■ 

Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause; 

And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 

His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause; 

This  is  the  happy  Warrior;  this  is  he 

That  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 


132  William  Wordsworth 

FIVE  SONNETS 

Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge,  September  3,  1802 

Earth  has  not  any  thing  to  show  more  fair; 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty; 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky. 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
■  Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep; 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will; 
Dear  God!  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 

Milton!  Thou  Shouldst  be  Living  at  this  Hour 

Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee:  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters:  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.    We  are  selfish  men; 
Oh,  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again, 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart; 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea: 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 

In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


Five  Sonnets  133 

Thought  of  a  Briton 

On  the  Subjugation  of  SwaTZERLAND,  1802 

Two  Voices  are  there,  one  is  of  the  Sea, 

One  of  the  Mountains,  each  a  mighty  Voice; 

In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice. 

They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty! 

There  came  a  tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 

Thou  foughtest  against  him, — but  hast  vainly  striven; 

Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven 

Where  not  a  torrent  murmur's  heard  by  thee. 

Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft; 

Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left — 

For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 

That  jMountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 

And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 

And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  thee! 

A  Flock  of  Sheep  that  Leisurely  Pass  by 

A  FLOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by. 
One  after  one;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky; 
I've  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet  do  lie 
Sleepless;  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees. 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I  lay. 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep,  by  any  stealth. 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away: 
Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day. 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health! 


134  Sydney  Smith 

The  World  is  too  Much  with  us;  Late  and  Soon 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers. 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours. 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


SYDNEY  SMITH 

177 1,  Essex-London,  1845 

A  SALAD 

To  make  this  condiment,  your  poet  begs 

The  pounded  yellow  of  two  hard-boiled  eggs; 

Two  boiled  potatoes,  passed  through  kitchen  sieve, 

Smoothness  and  softness  to  the  salad  give; 

Let  onion  atoms  lurk  within  the  bowl. 

And,  half-suspected,  animate  the  whole. 

Of  mordant  mustard  add  a  single  spoon. 

Distrust  the  condiment  that  bites  so  soon; 

But  deem  it  not,  thou  man  of  herbs,  a  fault, 

To  add  a  double  quantity  of  salt; 

Four  times  the  spoon  with  oil  from  Lucca  drown. 

And  twice  with  vinegar  procured  from  town; 

And,  lastly,  o'er  the  flavored  compound  toss 

A  magic  soup^on  of  anchovy  sauce. 


Lochinvar  135 

Oh,  green  and  glorious!    Oh,  herbaceous  treat! 
'Twould  tempt  the  dying  anchorite  to  eat: 
Back  to  the  world  he'd  turn  his  fleeting  soul. 
And  plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad-bowl! 
Serenely  full,  the  epicure  would  say. 
Fate  cannot  harm  me,  I  have  dined  to-day. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

1771,  Edinburgh-Abbotsford,  1832 
LOCHINVAR 

From  "  Marmion  " 

O,  YOUNG  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best; 
And,  save  his  good  broadsword,  he  weapon  had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late; 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all. 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word), 

"O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war. 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?" 


136  Walter  Scott 

"  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied; — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide, — 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far. 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet;  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar, — 
"Now  tread  we  a  measure!"  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace; 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume. 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plume; 

And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "  'Twere  better  by  far, 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar. " 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear. 

When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger  stood  near; 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 

So  Hght  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung! 

"She  is  won!  we  are  gone!  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur; 

They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Grammes  of  the  Netherby  clan; 

Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran: 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  sec. 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 

Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 


RosaWle  137 


PROUD  MAISl 

From  "  The  Heart  of  Midlothian'' 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

"Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird. 

When  shall  I  marry  me?" 
"When  six  braw  gentlemen 

Kirkward  shall  carry  ye." 

"Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly?" 
"  The  gray-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

"The  glow-worm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing 

Welcome,  proud  lady!" 


ROSABELLE 

From  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  " 

O  LISTEN,  hsten,  ladies  gay! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay. 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

"Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew! 

And,  gentle  Lady,  deign  to  stay! 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 


138  Walter  Scott 

"The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white; 

To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly: 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water-Sprite, 

Whose  screams  forebode  that  wreck  is  nigh. 

"Last  night  the  gifted  Seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  lady  gay; 

Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch; 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day?" 

"'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 
To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 

But  that  my  lady-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

"  'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well, 

But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide 
If  'tis  not  filled  by  Rosabelle." 

O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam; 

'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire's  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 
It  ruddied  all  the  copse-wood  glen; 

'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak. 
And  seen  from  caverned  Hawthornden. 

Seemed  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud 
Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffined  lie, 

Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 

Seemed  all  on  fire  within,  around, 
Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale; 

Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound. 

And  glimmered  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 


Breathes  There  a  Man  with  Soul  so  Dead    139 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair, — 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  Saint  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold, — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle! 

And  each  Saint  Clair  was  buried  there 
With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds  sung 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle! 


BREATHES  THERE  A  MAN  WITH  SOUL  SO  DEAD 

From  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  " 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said. 
This  is  my  own,  my  native  land! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned, 
From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand! 
If  such  there  breathe,  go  mark  him  well; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 
And  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonourcd,  and  unsung. 


140  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 


BORDER  BALLAD 

From  "  The  Monastery  " 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale; 

Why  the  dc'il  dinna  ye  march  forward  in  order? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale! 
All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  bound  for  the  Border! 

Many  a  banner  spread 

Flutters  above  your  head, 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story. 

Mount  and  make  ready,  then, 

Sons  of  the  mountain  glen. 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scottish  glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  the  hirsels  are  grazing; 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing; 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the  bow. 

Trumpets  are  sounding; 

War-steeds  are  bounding; 
Stand  to  your  arms,  then,  and  march  in  good  order, 

England  shall  many  a  day 

Tell  of  the  bloody  fray 
When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

1772,  Devonshire-London,  .1834 

AN  EPIGRAM 

What  is  an  epigram?  a  dwarfish  whole, 
Its  body  brevity,  and  wit  its  soul. 


Work  without  Hope  141 


METRICAL  FEET 

LESSON   FOR   A   BOY 

Trochee  trips  from  long  to  short; 

From  long  to  long  in  solemn  sort 

Slow  Spondee  stalks;  strong  foot!  yet  ill  able 

Ever  to  come  up  with  dactyl  trisyllable. 

Iambics  march  from  short  to  long; — 

With  a  leap  and  a  bound  the  swift  Anapaests  throng; 

One  syllable  long,  with  one  short  at  each  side, 

Amphibrachys  hastes  with  a  stately  stride; — 

First  and  last  being  long,  middle  short,  Amphimacer 

Strikes  his  thundering  hoofs  like  a  proud  highbred  racer 


WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.    Slugs  leave  their  lair — 
The  bees  are  stirring — birds  are  on  the  wing — 
And  Winter,  slumbering  in  the  open  air. 
Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring! 
And  I,  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing. 
Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor  sing. 
Yet  well  I  ken  the  banks  where  amaranths  blow, 
Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams  of  nectar  flow. 
Bloom,  O  ye  amaranths!  bloom  for  whom  ye  may. 
For  me  ye  bloom  not!    Glide  rich  streams  away! 
With  lips  unbrightened,  wreathless  brow,  I  stroll; 
And  would  you  learn  the  spells  that  drowse  my  soul? 
Work  without  Hope  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve, 
And  Hope  without  an  object  cannot  live. 


142  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

KUBLA    KHAN 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills. 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  O!  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover! 

A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 

As  if  this  Earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced, 

Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail: 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran. 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man. 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean: 

And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 
Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 


The  Cataract  of  Lodore  143 

It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 

A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air. 
That  sunny  dome!  those  caves  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry.  Beware!  Beware! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY 

1774,  Bristol-Keswick,  1843 

THE  CATARACT  OF  LODORE 

"How  does  the  water 
Come  down  at  Lodore?" 
My  Uttle  boy  asked  me 
Thus,  once  on  a  time; 
And  moreover  he  tasked  me 
To  tell  him  in  rhjone. 
Anon,  at  the  word, 
There  first  came  one  daughter, 
And  then  came  another, 
To  second  and  third 


144  Robert  Southey 

The  request  of  their  brother, 
And  to  hear  how  the  water 
Comes  down  at  Lodore, 
With  its  rush  and  its  roar, 

As  many  a  time 
They  had  seen  it  before. 
So  I  told  them  in  rhyme, 
For  of  rhymes  I  had  store; 
And  'twas  in  my  vocation 
For  their  recreation 
That  so  I  should  sing; 
Because  I  was  Laureate 
To  them  and  the  King. 

From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  tarn  on  the  fell; 
From  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains, 
Its  rills  and  its  gills; 
Through  moss  and  through  brake, 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  a  while,  till  it  sleeps 
In  its  own  little  lake. 
And  thence  at  departing, 
Awakening  and  starting, 
It  runs  through  the  reeds. 
And  away  it  proceeds. 
Through  meadow  and  glade, 

In  sun  and  in  shade. 
And  through  the  wood-shelter, 
Among  crags  in  its  flurry, 
Helter-skelter, 
Hurry-skurry. 
Here  it  comes  sparkling. 
And  there  it  lies  darkling; 
Now  smoking  and  frothing 
Its  tumult  and  wrath  in, 


The  Cataract  of  Lodore  145 

Till,  in  this  rapid  race 

On  which  it  is  bent, 

It  reaches  the  place 
Of  its  steep  descent. 

The  cataract  strong 
Then  plunges  along, 
Striking  and  raging 
As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among; 
Rising  and  leaping, 
Sinking  and  creeping, 
SwelHng  and  sweeping. 
Showering  and  springing, 
Flying  and  flinging, 
Writhing  and  ringing, 
Eddying  and  whisking, 
Spouting  and  frisking, 
Turning  and  twisting. 
Around  and  around 
With  endless  rebound; 
Smiting  and  fighting, 
A  sight  to  delight  in; 
Confounding,  astounding. 
Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with  its  sound. 

Collecting,  projecting, 
Receding  and  speeding. 
And  shocking  and  rocking. 
And  darting  and  parting, 
And  threading  and  spreading, 
And  whizzing  and  hissing, 
And  dripping  and  skipping, 
And  hitting  and  splitting. 
And  shining  and  twining. 
And  rattling  and  battling. 
And  shaking  and  quaking, 


146  Robert  Southey 

And  pouring  and  roaring, 
And  waving  and  raving, 
And  tossing  and  crossing, 
And  flowing  and  going. 
And  running  and  stunning, 
And  foaming  and  roaming, 
And  dinning  and  spinning, 
And  dropping  and  hopping, 
And  working  and  jerking. 
And  guggling  and  struggling, 
And  heaving  and  cleaving, 
And  moaning  and  groaning; 

And  glittering  and  frittering. 
And  gathering  and  feathering. 
And  whitening  and  brightening. 
And  quivering  and  shivering, 
And  hurrying  and  skurrying, 
And  thundering  and  floundering; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding. 
And  falling  and  brawling  and  sprawling, 
And  driving  and  riving  and  striving, 
And  sprinkling  and  twinlding  and  wrinkling, 
And  sounding  and  bounding  and  rounding. 
And  bubbling  and  troubling  and  doubling, 
And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and  tumbling. 
And  clattering  and  battering  and  shattering; 

Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting  and  sheeting. 
Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and  spraying, 
Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing  and  dancing, 
Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and  boiling, 
And  gleaming  and  streaming  and  steaming  and  beaming, 
And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing  and  gushing, 
And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clapping  and  slapping, 
And  curling  and  whirling  and  purling  and  twirling, 


My  Days  among  the  Dead  Are  Passed    147 

And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping  and  jumping, 
And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing  and  clashing; 
And  so  never  ending,  but  always  descending, 
Sounds  and  motions  for  ever  and  ever  are  blending 
All  at  once  and  all  o'er,  with  a  mighty  uproar,— 
And  this  way  the  water  comes  down  at  Lodore. 


MY  DAYS  AMONG  THE  DEAD  ARE  PASSED 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  passed, 

Around  me  I  behold, 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast. 

The  mighty  minds  of  old: 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal. 

And  seek  relief  in  woe; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedewed 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years, 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears; 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead ;  anon 

My  place  with  them  will  be. 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 

Through  all  Futurity; 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  Dot  Derish  in  the  dust. 


148  Walter  Savage  Landor 

JOSEPH  BLANCO  WHITE 

1775.  Seville-Liveipoal,  1841 

(     TO  NIGHT 

Mysterious  Night!  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue? 
Yet  'neath  the  curtain  of  translucent  dew. 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came, 
And  lo!  creation  widened  on  man's  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun!  or  who  could  find, 
While  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind! 
Why  do  we,  then,  shun  Death  with  anxious  strife?—' 
If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  Life? 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

1775)  Warwick-Florence,  1S64 

^  .     SHAKSPERE  AND  MILTON    ^"^^v 

The  tongue  of  England,  that  which  myriads 
Have  spoken  and  will  speak,  were  paralyzed 
Hereafter,  but  two  mighty  men  stand  forth 
Above  the  flight  of  ages,  two  alone; 
One  crying  out, 

All  stations  spoke  through  me. 
The  other: 

True;  and  through  this  trumpet  burst 
God's  -word;  the  fall  of  Angels,  and  the  doom 
First  of  immortal,  then  of  mortal  Man. 
Glory!  be  glory!  not  to  me,  to  God! 


Robert  Browning  149 


MACAULAY 

The  dreamy  rhymer's  measur'd  snore 
Falls  heavy  on  our  ears  no  more; 
And  by  long  strides  are  left  behind 
The  dear  delights  of  womankind 
Who  win  their  battles  like  their  loves, 
In  satin  waistcoats  and  kid  gloves, 
And  have  achicv'd  the  crowning  work 
When  they  have  truss'd  and  skewer'd  a  Turk. 
Another  comes  with  stouter  tread, 
And  stalks  among  the  statelier  dead. 
He  rushes  on,  and  hails  by  turns 
High-crested  Scott,  broad-breasted  Burns, 
And  shows  the  British  youth,  who  ne'er 
Will  lag  behind,  what  Romans  were. 
When  all  the  Tuscans  and  their  Lars 
Shouted,  and  shook  the  towers  of  Mars. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none  hear 

Beside  the  singer;  and  there  is  delight 

In  praising,  though  the  praiser  sit  alone 

And  see  the  prais'd  far  off  him,  far  above. 

Shakspere  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's; 

Therefore  on  him  no  speech!  and  brief  for  thee, 

Browning!    Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and  hale, 

No  man  hath  walk'd  along  our  roads  with  step 

So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 

So  varied  in  discourse.    But  warmer  climes 

Give  brighter  plumage,  stronger  wing:  the  breeze 

Of  Alpine  heights  thou  playest  with,  borne  on 

Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amalfi,  where 

The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for  song. 


150  Thomas  Campbell 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

1777,  Glasgow-Boulogne,  1844 

YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas! 
Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze ! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe; 
And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave — 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave; 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle,  etc. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks. 

No  towers  along  the  steep; 
Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves. 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below — 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle,  etc. 


Hohenlinden  151 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  bum ; 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


HOHENLINDEN 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low. 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow; 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  roUing  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh'd 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven; 
Then  rush'd  the  steed,  to  battle  driven; 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  Heaven 
Far  flash 'd  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow; 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 


152  Thomas  Moore 

'Tis  morn ;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.    On,  ye  Brave 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave! 
Wave,  Munich!  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 

Few,  few  shall  part,  where  many  meet; 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
yVnd  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


THOMAS  MOORE 

1779,  Dublin-London,  1852 

BELIEVE  ME,  IF  ALL  THOSE  ENDEARING 
YOUNG  CHARMS 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms, 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day. 
Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  fleet  in  my  arms, 

Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away, 
Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored,  as  this  moment  thou  art; 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will. 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart 

Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own. 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear. 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  may  be  known, 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear! 


The  Light  of  Other  Days  153 

No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sunflower  turns  to  her  god  when  he  sets 

The  same  look  which  she  turned  when  he  rose! 

-THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH  TARA'S  HALLS 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 

Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 

So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 

And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells; 

The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 

There  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 

Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

The  smiles,  the  tears 

Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken; 

The  eyes  that  shone, 

Now  dimmed  and  gone 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken! 


154  Thomas  Moore 

Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends  so  link'd  together 
I've  seen  around  me  fall 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet  hall  deserted 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


'TIS  THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer, 

Left  blooming  alone; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rose-bud  is  nigh. 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes. 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh. 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one! 

To  pine  on  the  stem; 
Since  the  lovely  arc  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them. 


Contented  John  155 

Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  /  follow, 

When  friendships  decay, 
And  from  Love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away. 
When  true  hearts  lie  withered, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
O  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone? 


JANE  TAYLOR 

1783,  London-Essex,  1824 

CONTENTED  JOHN 

One  honest  John  Tomkins,  a  hedger  and  ditcher, 
Although  he  was  poor,  did  not  want  to  be  richer; 
For  all  such  vain  wishes  in  him  were  prevented 
By  a  fortunate  habit  of  being  contented. 

Though  cold  were  the  weather,  or  dear  were  the  food, 
John  never  was  found  in  a  murmuring  mood; 
For  this  he  was  constantly  heard  to  declare, — 
What  he  could  not  prevent  he  would  cheerfully  bear. 

"For  why  should  I  grumble  and  murmur?"  he  said; 
"If  I  cannot  get  meat,  I'll  be  thankful  for  bread; 
And,  though  fretting  may  make  my  calamities  deeper, 
It  can  never  cause  bread  and  cheese  to  be  cheaper." 

If  John  was  afflicted  with  sickness  or  pain, 

He  wished  himself  better,  but  did  not  complain, 


156  Allan  Cunningham 

Nor  lie  down  to  fret  in  despondence  and  sorrow, 
But  said  that  he  hoped  to  be  better  to-morrow. 

If  any  one  wronged  him  or  treated  him  ill, 

Why,  John  was  good-natured  and  sociable  still; 

For  he  said  that  revenging  the  injury  done 

Would  be  making  two  rogues  when  there  need  be  but  one. 

And  thus  honest  John,  though  his  station  was  humble. 
Passed  through  this  sad  world  without  even  a  grumble; 
And  I  wish  that  some  folks,  who  are  greater  and  richer, 
Would  copy  John  Tomkins,  the  hedger  and  ditcher. 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM 

1784,  Dumfriesshire-London,  1842 

^  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA 

A  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea,  — 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free. 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

O  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 

And  white  waves  heaving  high; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys. 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 


The  Glove  and  the  Lions  157 


There's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  hghtning  flashes  free; 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 


LEIGH  HUNT 

1784,  Middlesex-Surrey,  1859 

THE  GLOVE  AND  THE  LIONS 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king,  and  loved  a  royal  sport. 
And  one  day,  as  his  lions  fought,  sat  looking  on  the  court. 
The  nobles  filled  the  benches,  and  the  ladies  in  their  pride. 
And  'mongst  them  sat  the  Count  de  Lorge,  with  one  for  whom 

he  sighed: 
And  truly  'twas  a  gallant  thing  to  see  that  crowning  show. 
Valor  and  love,  and  a  king  above,  and  the  royal  beasts  below. 

Ramped  and  roared  the  lions,  with  horrid  laughing  jaws; 

They  bit,  they  glared,  gave  blows  like  beams,  a  wind  went  with 
their  paws ; 

With  wallowing  might  and  stifled  roar  they  rolled  on  one  an- 
other, 

Till  all  the  pit  with  sand  and  mane  was  in  a  thunderous 
smother; 

The  bloody  foam  above  the  bars  came  whisking  through  the  air; 

Said  Francis  then,  "Faith,  gentlemen,  we're  better  here  than 
there." 

De  Lorge's  love  o'erheard  the  King,  a  beauteous  lively  dame, 
With  smiling  lips  and  sharp  bright  eyes,  which  always  seemed 
the  same; 


158  Leigh  Hunt 

She  thought,  "The  Count,  my  lover,  is  brave  as  brave  can  be; 
He  surely  would  do  wondrous  things  to  show  his  love  of  me; 
King,  ladies,  lovers,  all  look  on;  the  occasion  is  divine; 
I'll  drop  my  glove  to  prove  his  love;  great  glory  will  be  mine." 

She  dropped  her  glove  to  prove  his  love,  then  looked  at  him 

and  smiled; 
He  bowed,  and  in  a  moment  leaped  among  the  lions  wild; 
The  leap  was  quick,  return  was  quick,  he  has  regained  his 

place, 
Then  threw  the  glove,  but  not  with  love,  right  in  the  lady's 

face. 
"By  Heaven,"  said  Francis,  "rightly  done!"  and  he  rose  from 

where  he  sat; 
"No  love,"  quoth  he,  "but  vanity,  sets  love  a  task  like  that.'* 

SNEEZING 

What  a  moment,  what  a  doubt! 
All  my  nose  is  inside  out, — 
All  my  thrilling,  tickling  caustic, 
Pyramid  rhinocerostic, 

Wants  to  sneeze  and  cannot  do  it! 
How  it  yearns  me,  thrills  me,  stings  me, 
How  with  rapturous  torment  wrings  me! 

Now  says,  "Sneeze,  you  fool, — get  through  it." 
Shee — shee — oh!  'tis  most  del-ishi — 
Ishi — ishi — most  del-ishi ! 
(Hang  it,  I  shall  sneeze  till  spring!) 
Snuff  is  a  delicious  thing. 

ABOU  BEN  ADHEM 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase!) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 


To  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket    159 

An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 

And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he  said, 

"What  writest  thou?" — The  vision  raised  its  head. 

And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 

Answered,  "The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 

"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.    "Nay,  not  so," 

Replied  the  angel.    Abou  spoke  more  low. 

But  cheerly  still;  and  said,  "I  pray  thee,  then. 

Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.    The  next  night 

It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening  light, 

And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blessed, 

And  lo!  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 


JENNY  KISSED  ME 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 
Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in; 

Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 
Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in! 

Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad. 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 

Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add, 
Jenny  kissed  me. 


TO  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass. 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June; 
Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon. 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass; 
And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 
With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon. 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass; 


l6o  Barry  Cornwall 

O  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 

Both  have  your  sunshine,  both,  though  small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts;  and  both  seem  given  to  earth 

To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  their  natural  song — 

In-doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter.  Mirth. 


BARRY  CORNWALL  (BRYAN  WALLER 
PROCTER) 

1787,  London-London,  1874 

THE  BLOOD   HORSE 

Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed. 
Strong,  black,  and  of  a  noble  breed. 
Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone. 
With  all  his  line  of  fathers  known; 
Fine  his  nose,  his  nostrils  thin, 
But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within. 
His  mane  is  like  a  river  flowing. 
And  his  eyes  like  embers  glowing 
In  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
And  his  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

Look, — how  'round  his  straining  throat 

Grace  and  shifting  beauty  float! 

Sinewy  strength  is  in  his  reins. 

And  the  red  blood  gallops  through  his  veins; 

Richer,  redder,  never  ran 

Through  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 

He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 

Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire, 

Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelph, 

Or  O'Brien's  blood  itself! 


The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib        i6l 

He,  who  hath  no  peer,  was  bom, 

Here,  upon  a  red  March  morn; 

But  his  famous  fathers  dead 

Were  Arabs  all,  and  Arab  bred, 

And  the  last  of  that  great  line 

Trod  like  one  of  a  race  divine! 

And  yet, — he  was  but  friend  to  one 

Who  fed  him  at  the  set  of  sun, 

By  some  lone  fountain  fringed  with  green: 

With  him,  a  roving  Bedouin, 

He  lived  (none  else  w^ould  he  obey 

Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day). 

And  died  untamed  upon  the  sands 

Where  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stands. 


GEORGE  GORDON  LORD  BYRON 

178S,  London-Missolonghi,  Greece,  1824 
THE  DESTRUCTION  OF   SENNACHERIB 

710  B.    C. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen: 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill. 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  ever  grew  still! 


i62  George  Gordon  Byron 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his  pride: 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his  mail; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail. 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in.  the  glance  of  the  Lord! 


THE  EVE  OF  WATERLOO 

From  "  Childe  Harold  " 

June  i8,  1815 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night. 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell; — ■ 
But  hush!  hark!  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it? — No;  'twas  but  the  wind, 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 

On  with  the  dance!  let  joy  be  unconfined; 

No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Tlcasure  meet 


The  Eve  of  Waterloo  163 

To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet — 
But  hark! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before! 
Arm!  Arm!  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar! 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  wall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival. 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier. 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell: 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

Ah!  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise! 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste:  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car. 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed. 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips— "The  foe!  they  come!   they 
come>' " 


164  George  Gordon  Byron 


THE  OCEAN 

From  "  Childe  Harold  " 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 

There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes, 

By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar; 

I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  Nature  more. 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 

From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel, 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  aU  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean — roll! 

Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin, — his  control 

Stops  with  the  shore; — upon  the  watery  plain. 

The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 

When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths,  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths, — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him, — thou  dost  arise 

And  shake  him  from  thee;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 

And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 

His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 

And  dashest  him  again  to  earth; — there  let  him  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunder-strike  the  walls 

Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 


The  Ocean  165 

The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 

Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war; 

These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 

Thy  waters  washed  them  power  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage;  their  decay 

Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts : — not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable,  save  to  thy  wild  waves  play, — 

Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow, — 

Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  roUest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 

Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm. 

Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime. 

Dark-heaving; — boundless,  endless  and  sublime — 
The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 

Of  the  Invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee*  thou  goest  forth,  d'-ead,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean !  and  my  joy 

Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  hke  thy  bubbles,  onward;  from  a  boy 

I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 

Were  a  delight;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 

For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows,  far  and  near. 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane,  as  I  do  here. 


1 66  George  Gordon  Byron 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes, 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent. 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 


ON  CHILLON 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind! 
Brightest  in  dungeons.  Liberty!  thou  art. 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned. 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon!  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place. 
And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar,  for  'twas  trod. 


The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore         167 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace, 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard!    May  none  those  marks  efface! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


CHARLES  WOLFE 

1 79 1,  Kildare-Cork,  1823 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE  AFTER  CORUNNA 

January  16,  1809 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night. 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning. 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light 

And  the  lanthorn  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  headf 
And  we  far  away  on  the  bUlow! 


l68  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him; 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone. 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

1792,  Sussex-Spezia,  Italy,  1822 

TO  A  SKYLARK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 


To  a  Skylark  169 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud. 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  Hght  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not: 

Like  a  high-bom  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower. 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower: 


lyo  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view: 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered. 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  thieves: 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal. 

Or  triumphal  chaunt. 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt— 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain? 


To  a  Skylark  171 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be: 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


172  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


THE  CLOUD 

I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 
I  bear  Hght  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under; 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits. 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  Genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 


The  Cloud  I73 

The  sanguine  Sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead, 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain-crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And,  when  Sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  Moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-hke  floor 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet. 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  Stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer. 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent. 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  Sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone. 

And  the  Moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  Stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  Whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof; 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 


174  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march, 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  Powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  miUion-colored  bow; 
The  Sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  Earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  Earth  and  Water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  Sky: 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise,  and  unbuild  it  again. 


ARETHUSA 

Arethusa  arose 

From  her  couch  of  snows 
Tn  the  Acroceraunian  mountains, — 

From  cloud  and  from  crag. 

With  many  a  jag, 
Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 

She  leapt  down  the  rocks 

With  her  rainbow  locks 
Streaming  among  the  streams; 

Her  steps  paved  with  green 

The  downward  ravine 
Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams: 

And  gliding  and  springing, 

She  went,  ever  singing, 


Arethusa  175 

In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep; 

The  Earth  seemed  to  love  her, 

And  Heaven  smiled  above  her, 
As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 

Then  Alpheus  bold, 

On  his  glacier  cold, 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook, 

And  opened  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks; — with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south  wind 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow, 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 

Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below. 

The  beard  and  the  hair 

Of  the  River-god  were 
Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep, 

As  he  followed  the  light 

Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 
To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

"Oh,  save  me!    Oh,  guide  me! 

And  bid  the  deep  hide  me! 
For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair!'* 

The  loud  Ocean  heard, 

To  its  blue  depth  stirred. 
And  divided  at  her  prayer; 

And  under  the  water 

The  Earth's  white  daughter 
Fled  like  a  sunny  beam; 

Behind  her  descended 

Her  billows,  unblended 
With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream. 


176  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Like  a  gloomy  stain 

On  the  emerald  main, 
Alpheus  rushed  behind, — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 

A  dove  to  its  ruin 
Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 

Under  the  bowers 
Where  the  Ocean  Powers 

Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones; 
Through  the  coral  woods 
Of  the  weltering  floods, 

Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones; 
Through  the  dim  beams 
Which  amid  the  streams 

Weave  a  network  of  colored  light; 
And  under  the  caves 
Where  the  shadowy  waves 

Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night; 
Outspeeding  the  shark, 
And  the  swordfish  dark, — 

Under  the  ocean  foam, 

And  up  through  the  rifts 
Of  the  mountain  clifts, — • 

They  passed  to  their  Dorian  home. 

And  now  from  their  fountains 

In  Enna's  mountains, 
Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks, 

Like  friends  once  parted 

Grown  single-hearted. 
They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 

At  sunrise  they  leap 

From  their  cradles  steep 
In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill; 

At  noon  tide  they  flow 

Through  the  woods  below 


Music,  When  Soft  Voices  Die  177 

And  the  meadows  of  asphodel; 

And  at  night  they  sleep 

In  the  rocking  deep 
Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore; — 

Like  the  spirits  that  lie 

In  the  azure  sky, 
When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 


OZYMANDIAS 

I  MET  a  traveler  from  an  antique  land 
WTio  said:  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.    Near  them,  on  the  sand. 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown 
And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things. 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that  fed; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear: 
"My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings: 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair!" 
Nothing  beside  remains.    Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare, 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 


MUSIC,  WHEN  SOFT  VOICES  DIE 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 

Vibrates  in  the  memory — 

Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken. 

Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 

Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed; 

And  so  thy  tnoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 

Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


1 78  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST    WIND 

I 

O  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

YeUow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes!    O  thou 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 

Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill; 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  preserver;  hear,  O  hear! 

n 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed. 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and  ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning!  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.    Thou  dirge 


Ode  to  the  West  Wind  179 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst:  O  hear! 

Ill 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay. 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay. 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss,  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them!    Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  O  hear! 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable !  if  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 


l8o  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision — I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
O!  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud! 
I  faU  upon  the  thorns  of  life!    I  bleed! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee — tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is: 

What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own? 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.    Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit!    Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe, 

Like  withered  leaves,  to  quicken  a  new  birth; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 

Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind! 

Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy!    O  Wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind? 


Casablanca  i8l 

FELICIA  DOROTHEA  HEMANS 

1793,  Liverpool-Dublin,  1835 

CASABIANCA 

Battle  of  the  Nile,  August,  1798 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 

Whence  all  but  him  had  fled; 
The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 

Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood. 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm; 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud  though  child-like  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on ;  he  would  not  go 

Without  his  father's  word; 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below. 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud,  "Say,  father,  say. 

If  yet  my  task  be  done!" 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"Speak,  father!"  once  again  he  cried, 

"If  I  may  yet  be  gone!" 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied. 

And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
And  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death 

In  still  yet  brave  despair; 


l82  John  Keats 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"My  father!  must  I  stay?" 
While  o'er  him,  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud. 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapped  the  ship  in  splendor  wild, 
They  caught  the  flag  on  high. 

And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child. 
Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder  sound; 

The  boy, — oh!  where  was  he? 
Ask  of  the  winds,  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strewed  the  sea, — 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 
That  well  had  borne  their  part, — 

But  the  noblest  thing  that  perished  there, 
Was  that  young,  faithful  heart. 


JOHN  KEATS 

1795,  London-Rome,  1821 

LINES   ON  THE   MERMAID  TAVERN 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone. 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison?    O  generous  food! 
Dressed  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  Maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 


On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer     183 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  Astrologer's  old  quill 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, — 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a  new-old  Sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine, 
And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  ]\Iermaid  in  the  Zodiac! 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known- 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern — 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne: 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 
Or  hke  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific— and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


184  John  Keats 


OX  THE  GR-\SSHOPPER  AND   CRICKET 

The  poelr>-  of  earth  is  never  dead: 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  wth  the  hot  sun, 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead: 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 

In  summer  Iuxur\\ — he  has  never  done 

With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun. 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never: 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 

And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  haU-lost, 

The  Grasshopper's  among  the  grassy  hills. 


ODE  OX  A  GRECL\X  URX 

THor  still  unra\-ished  bride  of  quietness. 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Syl\-an  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  l3ower>-  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rh>-me: 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  .\rcady? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these?    What  maidens  loth? 
What  mad  pursuit?    What  struggle  to  escape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?    What  wild  ecstasy? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter;  therefore.  >-e  soft  pipes,  play  on; 

Xot  to  the  sensual  ear.  but.  more  endeared. 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tune: 

Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  lea\-e 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare; 


Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  185 

Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss. 
Though  winning  near  the  goal— yet,  do  not  grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs!  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new; 
More  happy  love!  more  happy,  happy  love! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 
For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloyed, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies. 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  dressed? 
WTiat  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore. 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel. 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  mom? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul,  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape!  fair  attitude!  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  oven,\TOught, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form!  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity.    Cold  Pastoral! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shall  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"— that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 


l86  William  Motherwell 

HARTLEY  COLERIDGE 

1796,  Somerset- Westmoreland,  1849 

SHE  IS   NOT  FAIR  TO  OUTWARD   VIEW 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 

As  many  maidens  be, 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me; 
Oh !  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold, 

To  mine  they  ne'er  reply, 
And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 

The  love-light  in  her  eye: 
Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 
Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL 

1797,  Glasgow-Glasgow,  1835 

THE   CAVALIER'S  SONG 

A  STEED,  a  steed  of  matchless  speed! 

A  sword  of  metal  keen! 
All  else  to  noble  hearts  is  dross. 

All  else  on  earth  is  mean. 
The  neighing  of  the  war-horse  proud, 

The  rolling  of  the  drum, 
The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  loud. 

Be  sounds  from  heaven  that  come; 
And  oh!  the  thundering  press  of  knights, 

Whenas  their  war-cries  swell. 
May  tole  from  heaven  an  angel  bright, 

And  rouse  a  fiend  from  hell. 


Rory  O'More  187 

Then  mount !  then  mount,  brave  gallants  all, 

And  don  your  helms  amain ; 
Death's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 

Us  to  the  field  again. 
No  shrewish  fears  shall  fill  our  eye 

When  the  sword-hilt's  in  our  hand — 
Heart-whole  we'll  part,  and  no  whit  sigh 

For  the  fairest  of  the  land! 
Let  piping  swain,  and  craven  wight 

Thus  weep  and  puling  cry. 
Our  business  is  hke  man  to  fight, 

And  hero-hke  to  die! 


SAMUEL  LOVER 

1797,  Dublin-Jersey,  1868 

RORY  O'MORE 

Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  bawn. 
He  was  bold  as  a  hawk,— she  as  soft  as  the  dawn; 
He  wished  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to  tease. 
"Now,  Rory,  be  aisy,"  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry 
(Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye), 
"With  your  tricks  I  don't  know,  in  troth,  what  I'm  about, 
Faith,  you've  teased  till  I've  put  on  my  cloak  inside  out." 
"Och!  jewel,"  says  Rory,  "that  same  is  the  way 
You've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a  day; 
And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure? 
For  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleen,  "don't  think  of  the  like. 
For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering  Mike; 
The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I'll  be  bound." 
"Faith,"  says  Rory,  "I'd  rather  love  you  than  the  ground!  " 


i88  Samuel  Lover 

"Now,  Rory,  111  cry  if  you  don't  let  me  go; 
Sure  I  drame  ev'ry  night  that  I'm  hating  you  so!" 
"Oh,"  says  Rory,  "that  same  I'm  delighted  to  hear, 
For  drames  always  go  by  conthraries,  my  dear; 
So,  jewel,  keep  draming  that  same  till  you  die, 
And  bright  mornin'  will  give  dirty  night  the  black  lie! 
And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure? 
Since  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you've  teased  me  enough. 
Sure  I've  thrashed  for  your  sake  Dinny  Grimes  and  Jim  Duff: 
And  I've  made  myself,  drinkin'  your  health,  quite  a  baste, 
So  I  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the  praste." 
Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her  neck, 
So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck. 
And  he  looked  in  her  eyes  that  were  beaming  with  light. 
And  he  kissed  her  sweet  lips; — don't  you  think  he  was  right? 
"Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir;  you'll  hug  me  no  more; 
That's  eight  times  to-day  that  you've  kissed  me  before." 
"Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he,  "to  make  sure. 
For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"  says  Rory  O'More. 


THE  LOW-BACKED   CAR 

When  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy, 

'Twas  on  a  market  day, 
A  low-backed  car  she  drove,  and  sat 

Upon  a  truss  of  hay; 
But  when  that  hay  was  blooming  grass 

And  decked  with  flowers  of  Spring, 
No  flower  was  there  that  could  compare 

With  the  blooming  girl  I  sing. 
As  she  sat  in  the  low-backed  car, 
The  man  at  the  turnpike  bar 
Never  asked  for  the  toll, 
But  just  rubbed  his  ould  poll, 
And  looked  after  the  low-backed  car. 


The  Low-Backed  Car  189 

In  battle's  wild  commotion, 

The  proud  and  mighty  Mars, 
With  hostile  scythes,  demands  his  tithes 

Of  death — in  warlike  cars; 
While  Peggy,  peaceful  goddess, 

Has  darts  in  her  bright  eye. 
That  knock  men  dowTi  in  the  market  town, 

As  right  and  left  they  fly; 
While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 
Than  battle  more  dangerous  far,— 
For  the  doctor's  art 
Cannot  cure  the  heart 
That  is  hit  from  that  low-backed  car. 

Sweet  Peggy  round  her  car,  sir, 

Has  strings  of  ducks  and  geese, 
But  the  scores  of  hearts  she  slaughters 

By  far  outnumber  these; 
While  she  among  her  poultry  sits, 

Just  like  a  turtle-dove. 
Well  worth  the  cage,  I  do  engage, 

Of  the  blooming  god  of  Love! 
While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 
The  lovers  come  near  and  far. 
And  envy  the  chicken 
That  Peggy  is  pickin', 
As  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car. 

O,  I'd  rather  own  that  car,  sir. 

With  Peggy  by  my  side. 
Than  a  coach-and-four,  and  gold  galore, 

And  a  lady  for  my  bride; 
For  the  lady  would  sit  forninst  me. 

On  a  cushion  made  with  taste. 
While  Peggy  would  sit  beside  me, 

With  my  arm  around  her  waist, — 


X90  Thomas  Hood 

While  we  drove  in  the  low-backed  car, 
To  be  married  by  Father  Mahar, 
O,  my  heart  would  beat  high 
At  her  glance  and  her  sigh, — 
Though  it  beat  in  a  low-backed  car! 

THOMAS  HOOD 

1799,  London-London,  1845 

I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember 
The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon 
Nor  brought  too  long  a  day; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  roses,  red  and  white. 
The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups — 
Those  flowers  made  of  light! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 
And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday, — 
The  tree  is  living  yet! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing,  ' 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

The  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow. 


Ruth  191 


I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky: 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  Heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


RUTH 

She  stood  breast  high  among  the  com, 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  mom, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush, 
Deeply  ripened; — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  bom. 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  com. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell, 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light, 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim; 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks: 

Sure,  I  said,  Heaven  did  not  mean, 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come. 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


192  Thomas  Hood 


NO! 

No  sun — no  moon ! 

No  morn— no  noon — 

No  dawn — no  dusk — no  proper  time  of  day — 

No  sky — no  earthly  view — 

No  distance  looking  blue — 

No  road — no  street — no  "t'other  side  the  way"- 

No  end  to  any  Row- 
No  indications  where  the  Crescents  go — 

No  top  to  any  steeple — 

No  recognitions  of  familiar  people — 

No  courtesies  for  showing  'em — 

No  knowing  'em! 

No  travelling  at  all— no  locomotion, 
No  inkling  of  the  way — no  notion — 

"No  go" — by  land  or  ocean — • 

No  mail — no  post — • 

No  news  from  any  foreign  coast- 
No  park — no  ring — no  afternoon  gentility — 

No  company — no  nobility — 

No  warmth,  no  cheerfulness,  no  healthful  ease, 
No  comfortable  feel  in  any  member — 
No  shade,  no  shine,  no  butterflies,  no  bees, 
No  fruits,  no  flowers,  no  leaves,  no  birds, 
November! 


TO  MINERVA 

FROM    THE   GREEK 

My  temples  throb,  my  pulses  boil, 

I'm  sick  of  Song,  and  Ode,  and  Ballad- 

So,  Thyrsis,  take  the  Midnight  Oil, 
And  pour  it  on  a  lobster  salad. 


Annie  Lcaurie  193 

My  brain  is  dull,  my  sight  is  foul, 

I  cannot  write  a  verse,  or  read,— 
Then,  Tallas,  take  away  thine  Owl, 

And  let  us  have  a  lark  instead. 


ELIZABETH  TURNER 

— ?  England-England,  1846 

POLITENESS 

Good  little  boys  should  never  say 
"I  will,"  and  "Give  me  these"; 

O,  no!  that  never  is  the  way, 
But  "  Mother,  if  you  please." 

And  "If  you  please,"  to  Sister  Ann 
Good  boys  to  say  are  ready; 

And,  "Yes,  sir,"  to  a  Gentleman, 
And,  "Yes,  ma'am,"  to  a  Lady. 


WILLIAM  DOUGLAS 

Dates  and  home  unknown 

ANNIE  LAURIE 

Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie, 

Where  early  fa's  the  dew. 
And  it's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 

Gic'd  me  her  promise  true — 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true, 

Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  me  doun  and  dee. 


194         Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw-drift; 
Her  throat  is  hke  the  swan; 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on — 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on, 

And  dark  blue  is  her  ee; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  me  doun  and  dee. 

Like  dew  on  the  gowan  lying 

Is  the  fa'  o'  her  faiiy  feet; 
And  like  winds  in  summer  sighing, 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet — 
Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet, 

And  she's  a'  the  world  to  me; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  me  doun  and  dee. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LORD  MACAULAY 

1800,  Leicestershire-London,   1859 

IVRY 

March  14,  1590 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are! 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Liege,  King  Henry  of  Navarre! 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  dance, 
Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  oh  pleasant 

land  of  France! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning  daughters. 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy; 
For  cold,  and  stiff,  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy  walls 

annoy. 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  of  war. 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 


Ivry 


195 


Oh!  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long  array; 
With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers. 
And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish  spears. 
There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our  land; 
And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon  in  his  hand; 
And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's  empurpled 

flood. 
And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his  blood; 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate  of  war, 
To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  King  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armor  dressed; 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant  crest. 
He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  Avas  in  his  eye; 
He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern  and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing  to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout:  "God  save  our  Lord  the 

King!" 
"And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he  may, 
For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray. 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine,  amidst  the  ranks  of 

war. 
And  be  your  oriflamme  to-day  the  helmet  of  Navarre." 

Hurrah!  the  foes  are  moving.    Hark  to  the  mingled  din, 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring  culverin. 

The  fiL-ry  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre's  plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 

Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of  France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  hlics,— upon  them  with  the  lance! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears  in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow-white 

crest; 
And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a  guiding 

star, 
Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Navarre. 


196         Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours.     Mayenne  hath  turned 

his  rein; 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter;  the  Flemish  count  is  slain. 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a  Biscay  gale; 
The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and  cloven 

mail. 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and,  all  along  our  van, 
"Remember  Saint  Bartholomew!"  was  passed  from  man  to 

man. 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  "No  Frenchman  is  my  foe: 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your  brethren  go." 
Oh!  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in  war, 
As  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Navarre? 

Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought  for  France 

to-day; 
And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a  prey. 
But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in  fight; 
And  the  good  Lord  of  Rosny  hath  ta'en  the  cornet  white. 
Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white  hath  ta'en, 
The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag  of  false  Lorraine. 
Up  with  it  high;  unfurl  it  wide;  that  all  the  host  may  know 
How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  which  wrought  His 

Church  such  woe. 
Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound  their  loudest  point 

of  war. 
Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  footcloth  meet  for  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Ho!  maidens  of  Vienna;  ho!  matrons  of  Lucerne; 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never  shall  return. 

Ho!  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican  pistoles, 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor  spearmen's 

souls. 
Ho!  gallant  nobles  of    the  League,  look  that  your  arms  be 

bright; 
Ho!  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward  to-night; 


The  Pillar  of  the  Cloud  197 

For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath  raised  the 

slave, 
And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valor  of  the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are; 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry  of  Navarre! 


JOHN  HENRY,  CARDINAL  NEWMAN 

1801,  London-Liverpool,  1890 

THE  PILLAR  OF  THE   CLOUD 

Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 
Lead  Thou  me  on! 

The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home- 
Lead  Thou  me  on! 

Keep  Thou  my  feet;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 

The  distant  scene, — one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on. 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path;  but  now 

Lead  Thou  me  on! 
I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will :  remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  blessed  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on, 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone; 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 


198  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

1809,  Durham-Florence,  1861 

THREE  SONNETS 

I  Thought  How  Once  Theocritus  Had  Sung 

I  THOUGHT  how  once  Theocritus  had  sung 

Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wish'd-for  years. 

Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 

To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young: 

And,  as  I  mus'd  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 

I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 

The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years, 

Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 

A  shadow  across  me.    Straightway  I  was  'ware. 

So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 

Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair; 

And  a  voice  said  in  mastery,  while  I  strove, — 

"Guess  now  who  holds  thee!"— "Death,"  I  said.    But,  there, 

The  silver  answer  rang — "Not  Death,  but  Love." 

If  Thou  Must  Love  Me,  Let  it  be  for  Naught 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 

Except  for  love's  sake  only.    Do  not  say 

"  I  love  her  for  her  smile — her  look — her  way 

Of  speaking  gently, — for  a  trick  of  thought 

That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 

A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day" — 

For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved,  may 

Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee, — and  love  so  wrought, 

May  be  unwrought  so.    Neither  love  me  for 

Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  checks  dry, — 

A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 

Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby! 


A  Court  Lady  199 

But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  may'st  love  on,  through  love's  eternity. 


How  Do  I  Love  Thee?     Let  Me  Count  the  Ways 

How  do  I  love  thee?    Let  me  count  the  ways. 

I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 

;My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 

For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 

I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyday's 

Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candle-light. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right; 

I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 

I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 

With  my  lost  saints, — I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 

Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life! — and,  if  God  choose, 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 


A   COURT  LADY 

Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes  with  purple  were  dark, 
Her  cheeks'  pale  opal  burnt  with  a  red  and  restless  spark. 

Never  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name  and  in  race; 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in  the  face. 

Never  was  lady  on  earth  more  true  as  woman  and  wife, 
Larger  in  judgment  and  instinct,  prouder  in  manners  and  life. 

She  stood  in  the  early  morning,  and  said  to  her  maidens,  "Bring 
That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at  the  Court  of  the  King. 

"Bring  mc  the  clasps  of  diamond,  lucid,  clear  of  the  mote, 
Clasp  me  the  large  at  the  waist,  and  clasp  me  the  small  at  the 
throat. 


200  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

"Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and  diamonds  to  fasten  the 

sleeves. 
Laces  to  drop  from  their  rays,  like  a  powder  of  snow  from  the 

eaves." 

Gorgeous  she  entered  the  sunlight  which  gathered  her  up  in 

a  flame, 
While,  straight  in  her  open  carriage,  she  to  the  hospital  came. 

In  she  went  at  the  door,  and  gazing  from  end  to  end, 

"  Many  and  low  are  the  pallets,  but  each  is  the  place  of  a  friend." 

Up  she  passed  through  the  wards,  and  stood  at  a  young  man's 

bed: 
Bloody  the  band  on  his  brow,  and  livid  the  droop  of  his  head. 

"Art  thou  a  Lombard,  my  brother?  Happy  art  thou,"  she  cried. 
And  smiled  like  Italy  on  him:  he  dreamed  in  her  face  and 
died. 

Pale  with  his  passing  soul,  she  went  on  still  to  a  second: 
He  was  a  grave  hard  man,  whose  years  by  dungeons  were 
reckoned. 

Wounds  in  his  body  were  sore,  wounds  in  his  life  were  sorer. 
"Art  thou  a  Romagnole?"    Her  eyes  drove  lightnings  before 
her. 

"Austrian  and  priest  had  joined  to  double  and  tighten  the  cord 
Able  to  bind  thee,  O  strong  one, — free  by  the  stroke  of  a  sword. 

"  Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us,  using  the  life  overcast 
To  ripen  our  wine  of  the  present,  (too  new),  in  glooms  of  the 
past." 

Down  she  stepped  to  a  pallet  where  lay  a  face  like  a  girl's, 
Voung,  and  pathetic  with  dying, — a  deep  black  hole  in  the  curls. 


A  Court  Lady  201 

"Art  thou  from  Tuscany,  brother?  and  seest  thou,  dreaming  in 

pain, 
Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching  the  list  of  the  slain?  " 

Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touched  his  cheeks  with  her 

hands: 
"Blessed  is  she  who  has  borne  thee,  although  she  should  weep 

as  she  stands." 

On  she  passed  to  a  Frenchman,  his  arm  carried  ofl  by  a  ball: 
Kneeling, — "O  more  than  my  brother!  how  shall  I  thank  thee 
for  all? 

"Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has  fought  for  his  land  and 

line. 
But  thou  hast  fought  for  a  stranger,  in  hate  of  a  wrong  not  thine. 

"Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too  strong  to  be  dispossessed: 
But  blessed  are  those  among  nations,  who  dare  to  be  strong 
for  the  rest!" 

Ever  she  passed  on  her  way,  and  came  to  a  couch  where  pined 
One  with  a  face  from  Venetia,  white  with  a  hope  out  of  mind. 

Long  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  twice  she  tried  at  the  name. 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that  faltered  and  came. 

Only  a  tear  for  Venice? — she  turned  as  in  passion  and  loss, 
And  stooped  to  his  forehead  and  kissed  it,  as  if  she  were  kissing 
the  cross. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart  she  moved  on  then  to  another, 
Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.     "And  dost  thou  suffer,  my 
brother?" 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers: — "Out  of  the  Piedmont  lion 
Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom !  sweetest  to  live  or  to  die  on." 


202  Alfred  Tennyson 

Holding  his  cold  rough  hands, — "Well,  oh,  well  have  ye  done 
In  noble,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would  not  be  noble  alone." 

Back  he  fell  while  she  spoke.    She  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  spring, 
"That  was  a  Piedmontese!  and  this  is  the  Court  of  the  King." 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

'"  1809,  Lincolnshire-Surrey,  1892 

BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK 

Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O,  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on, 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand. 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade       203 
THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE 

BALACLAVA,    OCTOBER    25,    1852 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
Charge  for  the  guns!"  he  said: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Fonvard,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered: 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wondered: 


204  Alfred  Tennyson 

Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  through  the  hne  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre -stroke, 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not. 

Not  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell. 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred ! 


HOME  THEY  BROUGHT  HER  WARRIOR  DEAD 

From  "  The  Princess  " 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead; 

She  nor  swooned,  nor  uttered  cry. 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

"She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 


The  Splendor  Falls  on  Castle  Walls     205 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 

Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 
Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stepped, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years. 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee, — 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears, 

"Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 


THE  SPLENDOR  FALLS  ON  CASTLE  WALLS 

From  "  The  Princess  " 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story: 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes. 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear!  how  thin  and  clear. 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cHfT  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying.. 


2o6  Alfred  Tennyson 


SIR  GALAHAD 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men. 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel. 
The  spHntered  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel: 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end. 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall: 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above. 

My  knees  are  bowed  in  crypt  and  shrine: 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love. 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill; 
So  keep  I  fair  through  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns: 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide. 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 


Sir  Galahad  207 

Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chaunts  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark; 
I  leap  on  board;  no  helmsman  steers: 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light! 

Three  angels  bear  the  Holy  Grail: 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision!  blood  of  God! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars. 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides. 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Through  dreaming  towns  I  go, 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and  mail; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads. 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight — to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 


2o8  Alfred  Tennyson 

Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams; 

And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 
This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear, 

This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 
Are  touched,  are  turned  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky. 

And  through  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear: 
"0  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God! 

Ride  on!  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-armed  I  ride,  whate'er  betide. 

Until  I  find  the  Holy  Grail. 


ULYSSES 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags. 

Matched  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race. 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel:  I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees.    All  times  I  have  enjoyed 

Greatly,  have  suffered  greatly,  both  with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone;  on  shore,  and  when 

Through  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 

Vexed  the  dim  sea.    I  am  become  a  name; 

For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 

Much  have  I  seen  and  known, — cities  of  men 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 


Ulysses  209 

Myself  not  least,  but  honored  of  ihem  all; 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 

I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethrough 

Gleams  that  untravelled  world,  whose  margin  fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 

To  rust  unburnished,  not  to  shine  in  use! 

As  though  to  breathe  were  life.    Life  piled  on  life 

Were  all  too  Httle,  and  of  one  to  me 

Little  remains:  but  every  hour  is  saved 

From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things;  and  vile  it  were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 

To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star. 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  through  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.    He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 

There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail: 
There  gloom  the  dark,  broad  seas.    My  mariners. 
Souls  that  have  toiled,  and  wrought,  and  thought  with  me — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil; 
Death  closes  all:  but  something  ere  the  end, 


2IO  Alfred  Tennyson 

Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 

Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  gods. 

The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks: 

The  long  day  wanes:  the  slow  moon  climbs:  the  deep 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.    Come,  my  friends, 

'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 

Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 

The  sounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down; 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 

Though  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and  though 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Moved  earth  and  heaven;  that  which  we  are,  we  are — 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 

THE  EAGLE 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked  hands; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands. 
Ringed  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls. 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM 


/^^aAA 


The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and  the  plains, 
Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who  reigns? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He,  though  He  be  not  that  which  He  seems? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not  live  in  dreams? 


The  Brook's  Song  211 

Earth,  these  soHd  stars,  this  weight  of  body  and  hmb, 
Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division  from  Him? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee:  thyself  art  the  reason  why; 

For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast  power  to  feel  "  I  am  I "? 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee;  and  thou  fulfillest  thy  doom, 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a  stifled  splendor  and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him,  thou,  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  with  Spirit  can 

meet — 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands  and  feet. 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise;  O  Soul,  and  let  us  rejoice, 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet  His  voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some:  no  God  at  all,  says  the  fool, 

For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight  staff  bent  in  a  pool; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye  of  man  cannot  see; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision — were  it  not  He? 

Slower  in  the  crannied  wall 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 

Little  flower — but  ij  I  could  understand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


THE  BROOK'S   SONG 

From  "  The  Brook  " 

I  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally. 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 


212  Alfred  Tennyson 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  gOj, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing. 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout. 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  water-break 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


A  Tribute  to  His  Mother  213 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 

Among  my  skimming  swallows; 
I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 

Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  HIS   MOTHER 

From  "  The  Princess  " 

"Alone,"  I  said,  "from  earlier  than  I  know. 
Immersed  in  rich  foreshadowings  of  the  world, 
I  loved  the  woman:  he  that  doth  not,  Hves 
A  drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet  self, 
Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than  death, 
Or  keeps  his  wing'd  affections  dipt  with  crime. 
Yet  there  was  one  through  whom  I  loved  her,  one 
Not  learned  save  in  gracious  household  ways, 
Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender  wants, 
No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being  all  dipt 
In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 
Interpreter  between  the  gods  and  men. 
Who  looked  all  native  to  her  place,  and  yet 


214  Alfred  Tennyson 

On  tiptoe  seemed  to  touch  upon  a  sphere 
Too  gross  to  tread;  and  all  male  minds  perforce 
Swayed  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they  moved, 
And  girdled  her  with  Music.    Happy  he 
With  such  a  mother!    Faith  in  womankind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things  high 
Comes  easy  to  him;  and,  tho'  he  trip  and  fall, 
He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay." 


RING  OUT,   WILD   BELLS 

From  "  In  Memoriam  " 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light; 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new; 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow; 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 
Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right. 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 


Crossing  the  Bar  215 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 
Ring  out  the  narrowng  lust  of  gold; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free. 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 

Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


CROSSING  THE  BAR 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell. 

When  I  embark; 

For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 


2i6        William  Makepeace  Thackeray 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

.^..^^^  1811,  Calcutta-London,  1863 

LITTLE  BILLEE  ^^^ 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  city 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea. 
But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuits 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 

There  was  gorging  Jack  and  guzzling  Jimmy, 
And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Billee. 
Now  when  they  got  as  far  as  the  Equator 
They'd  nothing  left  but  one  split  pea. 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"I  am  extremely  hungaree." 
To  gorging  Jack  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"We've  nothing  left,  us  must  eat  we." 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"With  one  another  we  shouldn't  agree! 
There's  little  Bill,  he's  young  and  tender, 
We're  old  and  tough,  so  let's  eat  he." 

"Oh,  Billy,  we're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you, 
So  undo  the  button  of  your  chemie." 
When  Bill  received  this  information 
He  used  his  pocket  handkerchie. 

"First  let  me  say  my  catechism. 
Which  my  poor  mammy  taught  to  me." 
"Make  haste,  make  haste,"  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 
While  Jack  pulled  out  his  snickersnee. 

So  Billy  went  up  to  the  main-top  gallant  mast. 
And  down  he  fell  on  his  bended  knee. 


Sorrows  of  Werther  217 

He  scarce  had  come  to  the  twelfth  commandment 
When  up  he  jumps.     "There's  land  I  see: 

"Jerusalem  and  Madagascar, 
And  North  and  South  Amerikee: 
There's  the  British  flag  a-riding  at  anchor. 
With  Admiral  Napier,  K.  C.  B." 

So  when  they  got  aboard  of  the  Admiral's, 
He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  flogged  Jimmec: 
But  as  for  little  Bill,  he  made  him 
The  Captain  of  a  Seventy-three. 


SORROWS   OF  WERTHER 

Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter; 

Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady. 
And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

And,  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out. 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter. 

Like  a  well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


21 8        William  Makepeace  Thackeray 
AT  THE   CHURCH   GATE      ) 

From  "  Pendennis  "      - — ' 

Although  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover; 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  Minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming; 
They've  hushed  the  Minster  bell: 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell; 

She's  coming,  she's  coming! 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid,  and  stepping  fast 

And  hastening  hither. 
With  modest  eyes  downcast; 
She  comes — she's  here — she's  past! 

May  heaven  go  with  her! 

Kneel  undisturbed,  fair  Saint! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly; 
I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute. 
Like  outcast  spirits,  who  wait, 
And  see,  through  heaven's  gate, 

Angels  within  it. 


The  End  of  the  Play  219 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY 

The  play  is  done;  the  curtain  drops, 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell: 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task; 

And,  when  he's  laughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that's  anything  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends; 

Let's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme; 
And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends, 

As  fits  the  merry  Christmas-time. 
On  Life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts, 

That  Fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play: 
Good-night!  with  honest  gentle  hearts 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway! 

Good-night— I'd  say,  the  griefs,  the  joys, 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 
The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age. 
I'd  say,  your  woes  were  not  less  keen. 

Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of  men; 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 

I'd  say,  we  suffer  and  we  strive, 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys; 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five, 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys. 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth. 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 
Pray  Heaven  that  early  Love  and  Truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 


220        William  Makepeace  Thackeray 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I'd  say,  how  fate  may  change  and  shift; 
The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool, 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift. 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 

The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown. 
The  knave  be  lifted  over  all, 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave! 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave? 
We  bow  to  Heaven  that  willed  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That's  free  to  give,  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit: 

Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state? 
His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 
Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus? 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we'll  kneel. 

Confessing  Heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance, 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  killed; 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance, 

And  longing  passion  unfulfilled. 
Amen!  whatever  fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent, 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 


Incident  of  the  French  Camp  221 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part, 
And  bow  before  the  Awful  Will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart, 
Who  misses,  or  who  wins  the  prize. 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can; 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise. 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays) ; 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 

Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days: 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then: 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said. 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men! 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth; 

I  lay  the  weary  jjen  aside. 
And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth. 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth. 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still — 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 

ROBERT  BROWNING 

181 2,  London-Venice,  1889 
INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 


You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon: 

A  mile  or  so  away. 
On  a  little  mound.  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day; 


222  Robert  Browning 

With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 
Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 

As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 
Oppressive  with  its  mind. 


n 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,"^ 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 


Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy. 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect — • 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed. 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 


IV 

"Well,"  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place. 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him! "    The  chief's  eye  flashed;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 


How  They  Brought  the  Good  News     223 


The  chief's  eye  flashed;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes; 
"You're  wounded!"    "Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said: 
"I'm  killed,  Sire! "    And  his  chief  beside 

Smihng  the  boy  fell  dead. 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM 
GHENT  TO  AIX 


I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three; 

"Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew; 

"Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 


Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight. 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

ni 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see; 
At  Diiffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be; 


224  Robert  Browning 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half-chime, 
So,  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "Yet  there  is  timeP' 


IV 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  thro'  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray: 


And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

VI 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris,  "Stay  spur! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her. 
We'll  remember  at  Aix  " — for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank. 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

vn 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like  chaflf ; 

Till  over  by  Dalhcm  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 

And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight!" 


Herve  Riel  225 

vui 

"How  they'll  greet  us!" — and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

rx 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  holster  let  fall, 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear. 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer; 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 


And  all  I  remember  is — friends  flocking  round 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from  Ghent. 


HERVE  RIEL 

May  31,  1692 


On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  ninety-two, 
Did  the  English  fight  the  French, — woe  to  France! 

And,  the  thirty-tirst  of  May,  helter-skelter  through  the  blue, 

Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a  shoal  of  sharks  pursue, 
Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  Saint  Malo  on  the  Ranee, 

With  the  Enghsh  fleet  in  view. 


226  Robert  Browning 


'Twas  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in  full  chase; 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  ship,  Damfreville; 
Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty- two  good  ships  in  all; 
And  they  signalled  to  the  place 
"Help  the  winners  of  a  race! 

Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbor,  take  us  quick — or,  quicker 

still, 
Here's  the  EngHsh  can  and  will!" 

Ill 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  and  leapt  on  board; 
"Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like  these  to  pass?" 

laughed  they: 
"Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the  passage  scarred  and 

scored, 
Shall  the  Formidable  here,  with  her  twelve-and-eighty  guns, 
Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the  single  narrow  way, 
Trust  to  enter  where  'tis  ticklish  for  a  craft  of  twenty  tons. 
And  with  flow  at  full  beside? 
Now,  'tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 
Reach  the  mooring?    Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs. 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay!" 

IV 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate: 

"Here's  the  English  at  our  heels;  would  you  have  them  take 

in  tow 
All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together  stern  and  bow, 
For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound? 
Better  run  the  ships  aground!" 
(Ended  Damfreville  his  speechV 


Herve  Riel  227 

"Not  a  minute  more  to  wait! 

Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 

Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  vessels  on  the  beach! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 


"Give  the  word!"    But  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard; 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck  amid  all  these 
• — A  Captain?    A  Lieutenant?    A  Mate — first,  second,  third? 

No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 

With  his  betters  to  compete! 

But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  Tourville  for  the  fleet, 
A  poor  coasting-pilot  he,  Herve  Riel  the  Croisickese, 

VI 

And  "What  mockery  or  mahce  have  we  here?"  cries  Herve 

Riel: 
"Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins?     Are  you  cowards,  fools,  or 

rogues? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took  the  soundings,  tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 

'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve  where  the  river  disembogues? 
Are  you  bought  by  English  gold?    Is  it  love  the  lying's  for? 
Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day. 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay. 
Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot  of  Solidor. 

Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin  France?    That  were  worse  than  fifty 
Hogucs! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth!    Sirs,  believe  me  there's 
a  way! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line. 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  Formidable  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine, 


228  Robert  Browning 

And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a  passage  I  know  well, 
Right  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, — 

— Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, 
Why,  I've  nothing  but  my  life, — here's  my  head! "  cries  Herve 
Kiel. 


vn 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 
"Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron!"  cried  its 
chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace! 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound. 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound. 

Keeps  the  passage,  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide  seas  pro- 
found! 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock, 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grates  the  ground 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past. 
All  are  harbored  to  the  last. 

And  just  as  Herve  Riel  hollas  "Anchor!" — sure  as  fate. 
Up  the  English  come, — too  late! 


vni 

So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm: 
They  see  the  green  trees  wave 
On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve. 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanchfd  with  balm. 


Herve  Riel  229 

"Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance 

As  they  cannonade  away! 
'Neath  rampircd  Solidor  pleasant  riding  on  the  Ranee!" 
How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  Captain's  countenance! 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

"This  is  Paradise  for  Hell! 
Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing!" 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"Herve  Riel!" 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

DC 

Then  said  Damfreville,  "My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end. 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips: 
You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships. 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse! 
Demand  whate'cr  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 

Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have!  or  my  name's  not  Damfre- 
ville." 


Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue: 


230  Robert  Browning 

"Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say, 

Since  on  board  the  duty's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it  but   a' 
run? — 
Since  'tis  ask  and  have,  I  may — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore- 
Come!    A  good  whole  hoUday! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call  the  Belle  Aurore!" 

That  he  asked  and  that  he  got,— nothing  more. 

xi 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost: 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing  smack. 
In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had  gone  to  wrack 

All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight  whence  England  bore 
the  bell. 
Go  to  Paris:  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank! 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to  Herve  Riel. 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Herve  Riel,  accept  my  verse! 
In  my  verse,  Herve  Riel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honor  France,  love   thy  wife   the  Belle 
Aurore ! 

PHEIDIPPIDES 

First  I  salute  this  soil  of  the  blessed,  river  and  rock ! 
Gods  of  my  birthplace,  da;mons  and  heroes,  honor  to  all! 
Then  I  name  thee,  claim  thee  for  our  patron,  co-equal  in  praise 
— Ay,  with  Zeus  the  Defender,  with  Her  of  the  a^gis  and  spear! 
Also,  ye  of  the  bow  and  the  buskin,  praised  be  your  peer. 


Pheidippides  231 

Now,  henceforth  and  forever, — O  latest  to  whom  I  upraise 
Hand  and  heart  and  voice!     For  Athens,  leave  pasture  and 

flock! 
Present  to  help,  potent  to  save,  Pan — patron  I  call! 

Archons  of  Athens,  topped  by  the  tettix,  see,  I  return! 
See,  'tis  myself  here  standing  alive,  no  spectre  that  speaks! 
Crowned  with  the  myrtle,  did  you  command  me,  Athens  and 

you, 
"Run,  Pheidippides,  run  and  race,  reach  Sparta  for  aid! 
Persia  has  come,  we  are  here,  where  is  She?  "    Your  command 

I  obeyed, 
Ran  and  raced :  like  stubble,  some  field  which  a  fire  runs  through, 
Was  the  space  between  city  and  city:  two  days,  two  nights  did 

I  burn 
Over  the  hills,  under  the  dales,  down  pits  and  up  peaks. 
Into  their  midst  I  broke:  breath  served  but  for  "Persia  has 

come! 
Persia  bids  Athens  proffer  slaves'-tribute,  water  and  earth; 
Razed  to  the  ground  is  Eretria — but  Athens,  shall  Athens 

sink, 
Drop  into  dust  and  die — the  flower  of  Hellas  utterly  die, 
Die,  with  the  wide  world  spitting  at  Sparta,  the  stupid,  the 

stander-by? 
Answer  me  quick,  what  help,  what  hand  do  you  stretch  o'er 

destruction's  brink? 
How, — when?    No  care  for  my  limbs! — there's  lightning  in  all 

and  some — 
Fresh  and  fit  your  message  to  bear,  once  lips  give  it  birth! " 

O  my  Athens — Sparta  love  thee?    Did  Sparta  respond? 
Every  face  of  her  leered  in  a  furrow  of  envy,  mistrust, 
Malice, — each  eye  of  her  gave  me  its  glitter  of  gratified  hate! 
Gravely  they  turned  to  take  counsel,  to  cast  for  excuses.     I 

stood 
Quivering, — the  limbs  of  me  fretting  as  fire  frets,  an  inch  from 

dry  wood: 


232  Robert  Browning 

"Persia  has  come,  Athens  asks  aid,  and  still  they  debate? 
Thunder,  thou  Zeus!    Athene,  are  Spartans  a  quarry  beyond 
Swing  of  thy  spear?     Phoibos  and  Artemis,  clang  them  'Ye 
must'!" 

No  bolt  launched  from  Olumpos!    Lo,  their  answer  at  last! 
"Has  Persia  come, — does  Athens  ask  aid, — may  Sparta  be- 
friend? 
Nowise  precipitate  judgment — too  weighty  the  issue  at  stake! 
Count  we  no  time  lost  time  which  lags  through  respect  to  the 

gods! 
Ponder  that  precept  of  old,  'No  warfare,  whatever  the  odds 
In  your  favor,  so  long  as  the  moon,  half-orbed,  is  unable  to  take 
Full-circle  her  state  in  the  sky ! '    Already  she  rounds  to  it  fast: 
Athens  must  wait,  patient  as  we — who  judgment  suspend." 

Athens, — except  for  that  sparkle, — thy  name,  I  had  mouldered 

to  ash ! 
That  sent  a  blaze  through  my  blood;  off,  off  and  away  was  I 

back, 
— Not  one  word  to  waste,  one  look  to  lose  on  the  false  and  the 

vile! 
Yet  "O  gods  of  my  land! "  I  cried,  as  each  hillock  and  plain. 
Wood  and  stream,  I  knew,  I  named,  rushing  past  them  again, 
"Have  ye  kept  faith,  proved  mindful  of  honors  we  paid  you 

erewhile? 
Vain  was  the  filleted  victim,  the  fulsome  libation!    Too  rash 
Love  in  its  choice,  paid  you  so  largely  service  so  slack ! 

"Oak  and  olive  and  bay, — I  bid  you  cease  to  enwreathe 
Brows  made  bold  by  your  leaf!    Fade  at  the  Persian's  foot. 
You  that,  our  patrons  were  pledged,  should  never  adorn  a  slave! 
Rather  I  hail  thee,  Parnes, — trust  to  thy  wild  waste  tract! 
Treeless,  herbless,  lifeless  mountain!    What  matter  if  slacked 
My  speed  may  hardly  be,  for  homage  to  crag  and  to  cave 
No  deity  deigns  to  drape  with  verdure?  at  least  I  can  breathe. 
Fear  in  thee  no  fraud  from  the  blind,  no  lie  from  the  mute!" 


Pheidippides  233 

Such  my  cry  as,  rapid,  I  ran  over  Parnes'  ridge; 
Gully  and  gap  I  clambered  and  cleared  till,  sudden,  a  bar 
Jutted,  a  stoppage  of  stone  against  me,  blocking  the  way. 
Right!  for  I  minded  the  hollow  to  traverse,  the  fissure  across: 
"Where  I  could  enter,  there  I  depart  by!    Night  in  the  fosse? 
Athens  to  aid?    Though  the  dive  were  through  Erebos,  thus  I 

obey — 
Out  of  the  day  dive,  into  the  day  as  bravely  arise!    No  bridge 
Better!" — when — ha!  what  was  it  I  came  on,  of  wonders  that 

are? 

There,  in  the  cool  of  a  cleft,  sat  he — majestical  Pan! 

Ivy  drooped  wanton,  kissed  his  head;  moss  cushioned  his  hoof: 

All  the  great  god  was  good  in  the  eyes  grave-kindly — the  curl 

Carved  on  the  bearded  cheek,  amused  at  a  mortal's  awe, 

As,  under  the  human  trunk,  the  goat-thighs  grand  I  saw. 

"Halt,  Pheidippides!" — halt  I  did,  my  brain  of  a  whirl: 

"  Hither  to  me!    Why  pale  in  my  presence?  "  he  gracious  began: 

"How  is  it,— Athens,  only  in  Hellas,  holds  me  aloof? 

"Athens,  she  only,  rears  me  no  fane,  makes  me  no  feast! 
Wherefore?    Than  I  what  godship  to  Athens  more  helpful  of 

old? 
Ay,  and  still,  and  forever  her  friend!    Test  Pan,  trust  mc! 
Go,  bid  Athens  take  heart,  laugh  Persia  to  scorn,  have  faith 
In  the  temples  and  tombs!    Go,  say  to  Athens,  'The  Goat-God 

saith: 
WTien  Persia — so  much  as  strews  not  the  soil — is  cast  in  the  sea, 
Then  praise  Pan  who  fought  in  the  ranks  with  your  most  and 

least. 
Goat-thigh  to  greaved-thigh,  made  one  cause  with  the  free  and 

the  bold!' 

"Say  Pan  saith:   'Let   this,   foreshowing   the  place,   be   the 

pledge!'" 
(Gay,  the  liberal  hand  held  out  this  herbage  I  bear 
— Fennel — I  grasped  it  a-treml)le  with  dew  —whatever  it  bode) 


234  Robert  Browning 

"While,  as  for  thee"  .  .  .    But  enough!    He  was  gone.    If  I 

ran  hitherto — 
Be  sure  that,  the  rest  of  my  journey,  I  ran  no  longer,  but  flew. 
Parnes  to  Athens — earth  no  more,  the  air  was  my  road: 
Here  am  I  back.    Praise  Pan,  we  stand  no  more  on  the  razor's 

edge! 
Pan  for  Athens,  Pan  for  me!    I  too  have  a  guerdon  rare! 

Then  spoke  Miltiades.    "And  thee,  best  runner  of  Greece, 
Whose  limbs  did  duty  indeed, — what  gift  is  promised  thyself? 
Tell  it  us  straightway, — Athens  the  mother  demands  of  her 

son!" 
Rosily  blushed  the  youth:  he  paused:  but,  lifting  at  length 
His  eyes  from  the  ground,  it  seemed  as  he  gathered  the  rest  of 

his  strength 
Into  the  utterance — "Pan  spoke  thus: ' For  what  thou  hast  done 
Count  on  a  worthy  reward!    Henceforth  be  allowed  thee  release 
From  the  racer's  toil,  no  vulgar  reward  in  praise  or  in  pelf!' 

"I  am  bold  to  believe,  Pan  means  reward  the  most  to  my 

mind! 
Fight  I  shall,  with  our  foremost,  wherever  this  fennel  may 

grow, — 
Pound — Pan  helping  us — Persia  to  dust,  and,  under  the  deep, 
Whelm  her  away  forever;  and  then, — no  Athens  to  save, — 
Marry  a  certain  maid,  I  know  keeps  faith  to  the  brave, — 
Hie  to  my  house  and  home:  and,  when  my  children  shall 

creep 
Close  to  my  knees, — recount  how  the  god  was  awful  yet  kind, 
Promised  their  sire  reward  to  the  full — rewarding  him — so!" 

Unforeseeing  one!    Yes,  he  fought  on  the  Marathon  day: 
So,  when  Persia  was  dust,  all  cried  "To  Akropolis! 
Run,  Pheidippides,  one  race  more!  the  meed  is  thy  due! 
'Athens  is  saved,  thank  Pan,'  go  shout!"    He  flung  down  his 

shield. 
Ran  like  fire  once  more:  and  the  space  'twixt  the  Fennelfield 


Cavalier  Tunes  235 

And  Athens  was  stubble  again,  a  field  which  a  fire  runs  through, 
Till  in  he  broke:  "Rejoice,  we  conquer!"    Like  wine  through 

clay, 
Joy  in  his  blood  bursting  his  heart,  he  died — the  bliss! 

So,  to  this  day,  when  friend  meets  friend,  the  word  of  salute 
Is  still  "Rejoice!" — his  word  which  brought  rejoicing  indeed. 
So  is  Pheidippidcs  happy  forever, — the  noble  strong  man 
Who  could  race  like  a  god,  bear  the  face  of  a  god,  whom  a  god 

loved  so  well ; 
He  saw  the  land  saved  he  had  helped  to  save,  and  was  suffered 

to  tell 
Such  tidings,  yet  never  decline,  but,  gloriously  as  he  began, 
So  to  end  gloriously — once  to  shout,  thereafter  be  mute: 
"Athens  is  saved!" — Pheidippides  dies  in  the  shout  for  his 

meed. 


CAVALIER  TUNES 

I — MARCHING  ALONG 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 

Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing: 

And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop, 

And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk  droop, 

Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

God  for  King  Charles!    Pym  and  such  carles 

To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treasonous  paries! 

Cavaliers,  up!    Lips  from  the  cup. 

Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup 

Till  you're — 

Clwrus. — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 


136  Robert  Browning 

Hampton  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell. 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry  as  well! 
England,  good  cheer!    Rupert  is  near! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here, 

Chorus. — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong. 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song? 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles!    Pym  and  his  snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent  carles! 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  from  the  fight, 

Chorus. — March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song! 

II — GIVE   A   ROUSE 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since? 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once? 
Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once? 

Cho. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else. 
While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him? 


My  Last  Duchess  237 

Cho. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 

Ill — BOOT  AND    SADDLE 

Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray. 

Cho. — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 

Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you'd  say; 
JVIany's  the  friend  there,  will  listen  and  pray 
"God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the  lay — 

C/io. — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay, 

Flouts  Castle  Brancepeth  the  Roundheads'  array: 

Who  laughs,  "  Good  fellows  ere  this,  by  my  fay, 

Clio. — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 

Who?     My  wife  Gertrude,  that,  honest  and  gay, 
Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering,  "  Nay! 
I've  better  counsellors ;  what  counsel  they? 

Cho. — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS 

Ferrara 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.    I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now:  Fra  Pandolf's  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 


238  Robert  Browning 

Will't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?    I  said 

"Fra  Pandolf "  by  design,  for  never  read 

Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 

The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 

But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 

The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 

How  such  a  glance  came  there;  so,  not  the  first 

Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.    Sir,  'twas  not 

Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 

Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek:  perhaps 

Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say,  "  Her  mantle  laps 

Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "Paint 

Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 

Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat":  such  stuff 

Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.    She  had 

A  heart — how  shall  I  say? — too  soon  made  glad, 

Too  easily  impressed:  she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  'twas  all  one!    My  favor  at  her  breast, 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech. 

Or  blush,  at  least.    She  thanked  men, — good!  but  thanked 

Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 

With  anybody's  gift.    Who'd  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling?    Even  had  you  skill 

In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me;  here  you  miss. 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark" — and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 


Tray  239 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping;  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.    Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 

Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  without 

IMuch  the  same  smile?    This  grew;  I  gave  commands; 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.    There  she  stands 

As  if  alive,    Will't  please  you  rise?    We'll  meet 

The  company  below,  then.    I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretense 

Of  mine  for  dowry  w'ill  be  disallowed; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.    Nay,  we'll  go 

Together  down,  sir.    Notice  Neptune,  though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity. 

Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me!  ) 


TRAY 

Sing  me  a  hero!    Quench  my  thirst 
Of  soul,  ye  bards! 

Quoth  Bard  the  first: 
"  Sir  Olaf ,  the  good  knight,  did  don 
His  helm  and  eke  his  habergeon"  .  .  . 
Sir  Olaf  and  his  bard ! 

"That  sin-scathed  brow"  (quoth  Bard  the  second), 
"That  eye  wide  ope  as  though  Fate  beckoned 
My  hero  to  some  steep,  beneath 
Which  precipice  smiled  tempting  death"  .  .  . 
You  too  without  your  host  have  reckoned! 

"A  beggar-child"  (let's  hear  this  third!) 
"Sat  on  a  quay's  edge:  Hke  a  bird 
Sang  to  herself  at  careless  play, 
And  fell  into  the  stream.    'Dismay! 
Helo.  you  the  standers-by!'    None  stirred. 


240  Robert  Browning 

"Bystanders  reason,  think  of  wives 
And  children  ere  they  risk  their  Hves. 
Over  the  balustrade  has  bounced 
A  mere  instinctive  dog,  and  pounced 
riumb  on  the  prize.    'How  well  he  dives! 

"'Up  he  comes  with  the  child,  see,  tight 
In  mouth,  alive  too,  clutchec?"  from  quite 
A  depth  of  ten  feet — twelve,  I  bet! 
Good  dog!    What,  off  again?    There's  yet 
Another  child  to  save?    All  right! 

"'How  strange  we  saw  no  other  fall! 
It's  instinct  in  the  animal. 
Good  dog!    But  he's  a  long  while  under: 
If  he  got  drowned  I  should  not  wonder — 
Strong  current,  that  against  the  wall! 

"'Here  he  comes,  holds  in  mouth  this  time 

— Whai:  may  the  thing  be?    Well,  that's  primei 

Now,  did  you  ever?    Reason  reigns 

In  man  alone,  since  all  Tray's  pains 

Have  fished — the  child's  doll  from  the  slime!' 

"And  so,  amid  the  laughter  gay, 
Trotted  my  hero  off, — old  Tray, — 
Till  somebody,  prerogatived 
With  reason,  reasoned:  'Why  he  dived, 
His  brain  would  show  us,  I  should  say. 

"'John,  go  and  catch — or,  if  needs  be, 

Purchase — that  animal  for  me! 

By  vivisection,  at  expense 

Of  half-an-hour  and  eighteenpence. 

How  brain  secretes  dog's  soul,  we'll  see!'" 


Muleykeh  241 


MULfiYKEH 

If  a  stranger  passed  the  tent  of  Hoseyn,  he  cried  "A  churl's! " 
Or  haply  "  God  help  the  man  who  has  neither  salt  nor  bread! " 
— "Nay,"  would  a  friend  exclaim,  "he  needs  nor  pity  nor  scorn 
More  than  who  spends  small  thought  on  the  shore-sand,  picking 

pearls, 
Holds  but  in  light  esteem  the  seed-sort,  bears  instead 
On  his  breast  a  moon-Uke  prize,  some  orb  which  of  night  makes 

mom. 

"What  if  no  flocks  and  herds  enrich  the  son  of  Sinan? 

They  went  when  his  tribe  was  mulct,  ten  thousand  camels  the 

due, 
Blood-value  paid  perforce  for  a  murder  done  of  old. 
'God  gave  them,  let  them  go!    But  never  since  time  began, 
Muleykeh,  peerless  mare,  owned  master  the  match  of  you. 
And  you  are  my  prize,  my  Pearl:  I  laugh  at  men's  land  and 

gold!' 

"So  in  the  pride  of  his  soul  laughs  Hoseyn — and  right,  I  say. 
Do  the  ten  steeds  run  a  race  of  glory?    Outstripping  all, 
Ever  Muleykeh  stands  first  steed  at  the  victor's  staff. 
Who  started,  the  owner's  hope,  gets  shamed  and  named,  that 

day. 
'Silence,'  or,  last  but  one,  is  'The  Cuffed,'  as  we  use  to  call 
Whom  the  paddock's  lord  thrusts  forth.    Right,  Hoseyn,  I  say, 

to  laugh!" 

"Boasts  he  Muleykeh  the  Pearl?  "  the  stranger  replies:  "Be  sure 

On  him  I  waste  nor  scorn  nor  pity,  but  lavish  both 

On  Duhl  the  son  of  Sheyban,  who  withers  away  in  heart 

For  envy  of  Hoseyn's  luck.    Such  sickness  admits  no  cure. 

A  certain  poet  has  sung,  and  sealed  the  same  with  an  oath, 

'  For  the  vulgar — flocks  and  herds !   The  Pearl  is  a  prize  apart. ' " 


242  Robert  Browning 

Lo,  Duhl  the  son  of  Sheyban  comes  riding  to  Hoseyn's  tent, 
And  he  casts  his  saddle  down,  and  enters  and  "  Peace! "  bids  he. 
"You  are  poor,  I  know  the  cause:  my  plenty  shall  mend  the 

wrong. 
'Tis  said  of  your  Pearl — -the  price  of  a  hundred  camels  spent 
In  her  purchase  were  scarce  ill  paid:  such  prudence  is  far  from 

me 
Who  proffer  a  thousand.     Speak!    Long  parley  may  last  too 

long." 

Said  Hoseyn,  "  You  feed  young  beasts  a  many,  of  famous  breed. 
Slit-eared,  unblemished,  fat,  true  offspring  of  Muzennem: 
There  stumbles  no  weak-eyed  she  in  the  line  as  it  climbs  the 

hill. 
But  I  love  Muleykeh's  face:  her  forefront  whitens  indeed 
Like  a  yellowish  wave's  cream-crest.     Your  camels — go  gaze 

on  them! 
Her  fetlock  is  foam-splashed  too.    Myself  am  the  richer  still." 

A  year  goes  by:  lo,  back  to  the  tent  again  rides  Duhl. 
"You  are  open-hearted,  ay — moist-handed,  a  very  prince. 
Why  should  I  speak  of  sale?    Be  the  mare  your  simple  gift! 
My  son  is  pined  to  death  for  her  beauty:  my  wife  prompts 

'Fool, 
Beg  for  his  sake  the  Pearl!    Be  God  the  rewarder,  since 
God  pays  debts  seven  for  one:  who  squanders  on  Him  shows 

thrift.'" 

Said  Hoseyn,  "  God  gives  each  man  one  life,  like  a  lamp,  then 

gives 
That  lamp  due  measure  of  oil :  lamp  lighted — hold  high,  wave 

wide 
Its  comfort  for  others  to  share!  once  quench  it,  what  help  is 

left? 
The  oil  of  your  lamp  is  your  son :  I  shine  while  Muleykeh  lives. 
Would  I  beg  your  son  to  cheer  my  dark  if  Muleykeh  died? 
It  is  life  against  life:  what  good  avails  to  the  life-bereft?" 


Muleykeh  243 

Another  year,  and — hist!    What  craft  is  it  Duhl  designs? 
He  aUghts  not  at  the  door  of  the  tent  as  he  did  last  time, 
But,  creeping  behind,  he  gropes  his  stealthy  way  by  the  trench 
Half-round  till  he  finds  the  flap  in  the  folding,  for  night  com- 
bines 
With  the  robber — and  such  is  he:  Duhl,  covetous  up  to  crime, 
Must  wring  from  Hoseyn's  grasp  the  Pearl,  by  whatever  the 
wrench. 

"He  was  hunger-bitten,  I  heard:  I  tempted  with  half  my  store, 
And  a  gibe  was  all  my  thanks.    Is  he  generous  like  Spring 

dew? 
Account  the  fault  to  me  who  chaffered  with  such  an  one ! 
He  has  killed,  to  feast  chance  comers,  the  creature  he  rode:  nay, 

more — 
For  a  couple  of  singing-girls  his  robe  has  he  torn  in  two: 
I  will  beg!    Yet  I  nowise  gained  by  the  tale  of  my  wife  and 

son. 

"I  swear  by  the  Holy  House,  my  head  will  I  never  wash 
Till  I  filch  his  Pearl  away.    Fair  dealing  I  tried,  then  guile, 
And  now  I.  resort  to  force.    He  said  we  must  live  or  die: 
Let  him  die,  then,— let  me  live!    Be  bold — but  not  too  rash! 
I  have  found  me  a  peeping-place:  breast,  bury  your  breathing 

while 
I  explore  for  myself!    Now,  breathe!    He  deceived  me  not,  the 

spy! 

"As  he  said — there  lies  in  peace  Hoseyn — how  happy!     Beside 
Stands  tethered  the  Pearl:  thrice  winds  her  headstall  about  his 

wrist: 
'Tis  therefore  he  sleeps  so  sound — the  moon  through  the  roof 

reveals. 
And,  loose  on  his  left,  stands  too  that  other,  known  far  and 

wide, 
Buheyseh,  her  sister  born:  fleet  is  she  yet  ever  missed 
The  winning  tail's  fire-flash  a-stream  oast  the  thunderous  heels. 


244  Robert  Browning 

"No  less  she  stands  saddled  and  bridled,  this  second,  in  case 

some  thief 
Should  enter  and  seize  and  fly  with  the  first,  as  I  mean  to  do. 
What  then?    The  Pearl  is  the  Pearl:  once  mount  her  we  both 

escape." 
Through  the  skirt-fold  in  glides  Duhl, — so  a  serpent  disturbs 

no  leaf 
In  a  bush  as  he  parts  the  twigs  entwining  a  nest :  clean  through, 
He  is  noiselessly  at  his  work:  as  he  planned,  he  performs  the 

rape. 

He  has  set  the  tent-door  wide,  has  buckled  the  girth,  has  clipped 
The  headstall  away  from  the  wrist  he  leaves  thrice  bound  as 

before, 
He  springs  on  the  Pearl,  is  launched  on  the  desert  like  bolt  from 

bow. 
Up  starts  our  plundered  man :  from  his  breast  though  the  heart 

be  ripped. 
Yet  his  mind  has  the  mastery:  behold,  in  a  minute  more. 
He  is  out  and  off  and  away  on  Buheyseh,  whose  worth  we  know! 

And  Hoseyn — his  blood  turns  flame,  he  has  learned  long  since 

to  ride. 
And  Buheyseh  does  her  part, — they  gain — they  are  gaining  fast 
On  the  fugitive  pair,  and  Duhl  has  Ed-Darraj  to  cross  and  quit, 
And  to  reach  the  ridge  El-Saban, — no  safety  till  that  be  spied! 
And  Buheyseh  is,  bound  by  bound,  but  a  horse-length  off  at 

last, 
For  the  Pearl  has  missed  the  tap  of  the  heel,  the  touch  of  the  bit. 

She  shortens  her  stride,  she  chafes  at  her  rider  the  strange  and 

queer: 
Buheyseh  is  mad  with  hope — beat  sister  she  shall  and  must, 
Though  Duhl,  of  the  hand  and  heel  so  clumsy,  she  has  to  thank. 
She  is  near  now,  nose  by  tail — they  are  neck  by  croup — joy! 

fear! 


Muleykeh  245 

What  folly  makes  Hoscyn  shout  "Dog  Duhl,  damned  son  of 

the  Dust, 
Touch  the  right  car,  and  press  with  your  foot  my  Pearl's  left 

flank!" 


And  Duhl  was  wise  at  the  word,  and  Muleykeh  as  prompt 

perceived 
Who  was  urging  redoubled  pace,  and  to  hear  him  was  to  obey, 
And  a  leap  indeed  gave  she,  and  evanished  forevcrmore. 
And  Hoseyn  looked  one  long  last  look  as  who,  all  bereaved, 
Looks,  fain  to  follow  the  dead  so  far  as  the  living  may: 
Then  he  turned  Buheyseh's  neck  slow  homeward,  weeping  sore. 

And,  lo,  in  the  sunrise,  still  sat  Hoseyn  upon  the  ground 
Weeping:  and  neighbors  came,  the  tribesmen  of  Benu-Asad 
In  the  vale  of  green  Er-Rass,  and  they  questioned  him  of  hfs' 

grief; 
And  he  told  from  first  to  last  how,  serpent-like,  Duhl  had 

wound 
His  way  to  the  nest,  and  how  Duhl  rode  like  an  ape,  so  bad! 
A.nd  how  Buheysch  did  wonders,  yet  Pearl  remained  with  the 

thief. 

And  they  jeered  him,  one  and  all:  "Poor  Hoseyn  is  crazed  past 

hope! 
How  else  had  he  wrought  himself  his  ruin,  in  fortune's  spite? 
To  have  simply  held  the  tongue  were  a  task  for  boy  or  girl, 
And  here  were  Muleykeh  again,  the  eyed  like  an  antelope, 
The  child  of  his  heart  by  day,  the  wife  of  his  breast  by  night! " — 
"And  the  beaten  in  speed!"  wept  Hoseyn.    "You  never  have 

loved  my  Pearl." 


246  Robert  Browning 


THE  \^AR'S  AT  THE  SPRING 

From  "  Pippa  Passes  " 

The  year's  at  the  spring, 
And  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn; 
God's  in  His  Heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world  I 


EPILOGUE 

From  "Asolando  " 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 
Will   they    pass   to    where — by   death,   fools    think,   impris- 
oned— 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you  loved  so, 
— Pity  me? 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless^  did  I  drivel 
— Being — who? 

One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast  forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break. 
Never  dreamed,   though   right  were  worsted,   wrong  would 

triumph. 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 


Prospice  247 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
"Strive  and  thrive!"  cry  "Speed, — fight  on,  fare  ever 
There  as  here!" 


PROSPICE 

Fear  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face. 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go: 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained. 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore; 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No!  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old. 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave. 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave. 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend. 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul!    I  shall  clasp  thee  again. 

And  with  God  be  the  rest! 


248  Edward  Lear 

EDWARD  LEAR 

181 2,  London-San  Remo,  Italy,  1888 
THE  JUMBLIES 

They  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve,  they  did; 

In  a  sieve  they  went  to  sea; 
In  spite  of  all  their  friends  could  say, 
On  a  winter's  morn,  on  a  stormy  day, 

In  a  sieve  they  went  to  sea. 
And  when  the  sieve  turned  round  and  round, 
And  every  one  cried,  "You'll  all  be  drowned!" 
They  called  aloud,  "Our  sieve  ain't  big; 
But  we  don't  care  a  button;  we  don't  care  a  fig: 
In  a  sieve  we'll  go  to  sea! " 
Far  and  few,  far  and  few, 

Are  the  lands  where  the  Jumblics  live: 
Their  heads  are  green,  and  their  hands  are  blue; 
And  they  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 

They  sailed  away  in  a  sieve,  they  did, 

In  a  sieve  they  sailed  so  fast. 
With  only  a  beautiful  pea-green  veil 
Tied  with  a  ribbon,  by  way  of  a  sail. 

To  a  small  tobacco-pipe  mast. 
And  every  one  said  who  saw  them  go, 
"Oh!  won't  they  be  soon  upset,  you  know? 
For  the  sky  is  dark,  and  the  voyage  is  long; 
And,  happen  what  may,  it's  extremely  wrong 

In  a  sieve  to  sail  so  fast." 

The  water  it  soon  came  in,  it  did; 

The  water  it  soon  came  in: 
So,  to  keep  them  dry,  they  wrapped  their  feet 
In  a  pinky  paper  all  folded  neat: 

And  they  fastened  it  down  with  a  pin. 


The  Jumblies  249 

And  they  passed  the  night  in  a  crockery-jar; 
And  each  of  them  said,  "How  wise  we  are! 
Though  the  sky  be  dark,  and  the  voyage  be  long. 
Yet  we  never  can  think  we  were  rash  or  wrong, 
While  round  in  our  sieve  we  spin." 

And  all  night  long  they  sailed  away; 

And,  when  the  sun  went  down. 
They  whistled  and  warbled  a  moony  song 
To  the  echoing  sound  of  a  coppery  gong. 

In  the  shade  of  the  mountains  brown, 
"OTimballoo!    How  happy  we  are 
When  we  live  in  a  sieve  and  a  crockery- jar! 
And  all  night  long,  in  the  moonlight  pale, 
We  sail  away  with  a  pea-green  sail 

In  the  shade  of  the  mountains  brown." 

They  sailed  to  the  Western  Sea,  they  did, — 

To  a  land  all  covered  with  trees: 
And  they  bought  an  owl,  and  a  useful  cart, 
And  a  pound  of  rice,  and  a  cranberry-tart, 

And  a  hive  of  silvery  bees; 
And  they  bought  a  pig,  and  some  green  jackdaws, 
And  a  lovely  monkey  with  lollipop  paws, 
And  forty  bottles  of  ring-bo-ree, 

And  no  end  of  Stilton  cheese: 

And  in  twenty  years  they  all  came  back, — 

In  twenty  years  or  more; 
And  every  one  said,  "How  tall  they've  grown! 
For  they've  been  to  the  Lakes,  and  the  Torrible  Zone, 

And  the  hills  of  the  Chankly  Bore." 
And  they  drank  their  health,  and  gave  them  a  feast 
Of  dumpUngs  made  of  beautiful  yeast; 
And  every  one  said,  "If  we  only  live, 
We,  too,  will  go  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 


250  Edward  Lear 

To  the  hills  of  the  Chankly  Bore." 
Far  and  few,  far  and  few, 

Are  the  lands  where  the  Jumblies  live: 
Their  heads  are  green,  and  their  hands  are  blue; 

And  they  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 


THE  OWL  AND  THE  PUSSY-CAT 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-cat  went  to  sea 

In  a  beautiful  pea-green  boat: 
They  took  some  honey,  and  plenty  of  money 

Wrapped  up  in  a  five-pound  note. 
The  Owl  looked  up  to  the  stars  above, 

And  sang  to  a  small  guitar, 
"O  lovely  Pussy,  O  Pussy,  my  love, 

What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are, 
You  are, 
You  are! 

What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are!" 

Pussy  said  to  the  Owl,  "You  elegant  fowl, 

How  charmingly  sweet  you  sing! 
Oh!  let  us  be  married;  too  long  we  have  tarried: 

But  what  shall  we  do  for  a  ring?  " 
They  sailed  away,  for  a  year  and  a  day, 

To  the  land  where  the  bong-tree  grows; 
And  there  in  a  wood  a  Piggy -wig  stood. 

With  a  ring  at  the  end  of  his  nose. 
His  nose. 
His  nose. 
With  a  ring  at  the  end  of  his  nose. 

"Dear  Pig,  are  you  willing  to  sell  for  one  shilling 
Your  ring?"    Said  the  Piggy,  "I  will." 

So  they  took  it  away,  and  were  married  next  day 
By  the  Turkey  who  lives  on  the  hiU. 


Say  Not,  the  Struggle  Naught  Availeth     251 

They  dined  on  mince  and  slices  of  quince, 
Which  they  ate  with  a  runcible  spoon; 
And  hand  in  hand,  on  the  edge  of  the  sand, 
They  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
The  moon. 
The  moon, 
They  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 


A  LIMERICK 

There  was  an  Old  Man  in  a  tree, 
Who  was  horribly  bored  by  a  bee; 
When  they  said,  "Does  it  buzz?" 
He  replied,  "Yes,  it  does! 
It's  a  regular  brute  of  a  bee!" 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 

1819,  Liverpool-Florence,  1861 
SAY  NOT,  THE  STRUGGLE  NAUGHT  AVAILETH 

Say  not,  the  struggle  naught  availeth, 
The  labor  and  the  wounds  are  vain. 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth. 
And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed. 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers. 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking. 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain. 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 


252  Arthur  Hugh  Clough 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light; 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly, 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 


QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side. 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied. 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side: 

E'en  so,— but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel 

Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled. 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared! 

To  veer,  how  vain!    On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks!    In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guidcs,- 
To  that  and  your  own  selves  be  true. 

But  O  blithe  breeze,  and  O  great  seas, 
Though  ne'er,  that  earUest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again. 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 


Young  and  Old  253 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought, 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare, — 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas! 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there! 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY 

1819,  Devonshire-Hampsliire,  1875 
'    YOUNG  AND  OLD 

From  "  The  Water  Babies  " 

When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  green; 
And  every  goose  a  swan,  lad. 

And  every  lass  a  queen; 
Then  hey  for  boot  and  horse,  lad, 

And  round  the  world  away; 
Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad, 

And  every  dog  his  day. 

When  all  the  world  is  old,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  brown; 
And  all  the  sport  is  stale,  lad, 

And  all  the  wheels  run  down: 
Creep  home,  and  take  your  place  there, 

The  spent  and  maimed  among: 
God  grant  you  find  one  face  there 

You  loved  when  all  was  young. 


254  Matthew  Arnold 

FREDERICK  LOCKER-LAMPSON 

1821,  Greenwich-Rowfant,   1895 

A  TERRIBLE  INFANT 

I  RECOLLECT  a  nurse  called  Ann, 
Who  carried  me  about  the  grass, 

And  one  fine  day  a  fine  young  man 
Came  up,  and  kissed  the  pretty  lass: 

She  did  not  make  the  least  objection! 
Thinks  I,  "Aha! 
When  I  can  talk,  I'll  tell  Mamma." 

— And  that's  my  earliest  recollection. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

1822,  Middlesex-Liverpool,  1888 

SHAKSPERE 

Others  abide  our  question.    Thou  art  free. 

We  ask  and  ask — Thou  smilcst  and  art  still. 

Out-topping  knowledge.    For  the  loftiest  hill. 

Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty. 

Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea. 

Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling-place, 

Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 

To  the  foiled  searching  of  mortality; 

And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams  know, 

Self-schooled,  self-scanned,  self-honored,  self-secure, 

Didst  tread  on  earth  unguessed  at. ^Better  so! 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 

All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs  which  bow, 

Find  their  sole  speech  in  that  victorious  brow. 


Self-Dependence  255 


REQUIESCAT 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses, 
And  never  a  spray  of  yew! 

In  quiet  she  reposes: 

Ah!  would  that  I  did  too. 

Her  mirth  the  world  required: 
She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 

But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 
And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 
In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound. 

But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 
And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabined,  ample  Spirit, 

It  fluttered  and  failed  for  breath. 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 
The  vasty  hall  of  Death. 


SELF-DEPENDENCE 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be, 
At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 

O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send: 

"  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have  calmed  me, 

Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end! 

"Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "ye  stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you, 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you!" 


256  Coventry  Patmore 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault  of  heaven, 
Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way. 
In  the  rustling  night-air  came  the  answer: 
"Wouldst  thou  he  as  these  are?    Live  as  they. 

"  Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see. 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

"And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining. 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silvered  roll; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

"  Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardf ul 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be. 
In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

O  air-born  voice!  long  since,  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear: 
"Resolve  to  be  thyself;  and  know,  that  he 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery!" 


COVENTRY  PATMORE 

1823,  Warwickshire-Hampshire,  1896 
THE  TOYS 

My  little  Son,  who  looked  from  thoughtful  eyes 

And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 

Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobeyed, 

I  struck  him,  and  dismissed 

With  hard  words  and  unkissed, 

— His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead 


The  Toys  257 

Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 

I  visited  his  bed, 

But  found  him  slumbering  deep. 

With  darkened  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 

From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 

And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own; 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 

He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 

A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-veined  stone, 

A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach. 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 

A  bottle  with  bluebells. 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with  careful  art, 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 

So  when  that  night  I  prayed 

To  God,  I  wept,  and  said: 

Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 

Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 

And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 

We  made  our  joys. 

How  weakly  understood 

Thy  great  commanded  good. 

Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  Avhom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay, 

Thou'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 

"  I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 


258  Charles  Stuart  Calverley 


THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN 

1830,  Isle  of  Man-Isle  of  Man,  1897 
^     MY  GARDEN 

A  GARDEN  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot! 
Rose  plot, 

Fringed  pool, 
Ferned  grot — 
The  veriest  school 
Of  peace ;  and  yet  the  fool 
Contends  that  God  is  not — - 
Not  God!  in  gardens!  when  the  eve  is  cool? 
Nay,  but  I  have  a  sign: 
'Tis  very  sure  God  walks  in  mine. 


CHARLES  STUART  CALVERLEY 

18.31,  Worcestershire-London,  1884 
THE  ALPHABET 

A  IS  an  Angel  of  blushing  eighteen; 
B  is  the  Ball  where  the  Angel  was  seen; 
C  is  the  Chaperon,  who  cheated  at  cards; 
D  is  the  Deuxtemps  with  Frank  of  the  Guards; 
E  is  the  Eye,  killing  slowly  but  surely; 
F  is  the  Fan  whence  it  peeped  so  demurely; 
G  is  the  Glove  of  superlative  kid; 
H  is  the  Hand  which  it  spitefully  hid; 
I  is  the  Ice  which  the  fair  one  demanded; 
J  is  the  Juvenile  that  dainty  who  handed; 
K  is  the  Kerchief,  a  rare  work  of  art; 
L  is  the  Lace  which  composed  the  chief  part; 
M  is  the  old  Maid  who  watched  the  chits  dance; 
N  is  the  Nose  she  turned  up  at  each  glance; 


Jabberwocky  259 

O  is  the  Olga  (just  then  in  its  prime); 
P  is  the  Partner  who  wouldn't  keep  time; 
Q  is  a  Quadrille  put  instead  of  the  Lancers; 
R  is  the  Remonstrances  made  by  the  dancers; 
S  is  the  Supper  where  all  went  in  pairs; 
T  is  the  Twaddle  they  talked  on  the  stairs; 
U  is  the  Uncle  who  "thought  we'd  be  goin'"; 

V  is  the  Voice  which  his  niece  replied  "  No"  in; 
W  is  the  Waiter  who  sat  up  till  eight; 

X  is  the  exit,  not  rigidly  straight; 

Y  is  the  Yawning  fit  caused  by  the  Ball; 
Z  stands  for  Zero,  or  nothing  at  all. 

LEWIS  CARROLL  (CHARLES  L.  DODGSON) 

1832,  Daresbury-Surrey,  1898 
JABBERWOCKY 

From  "Through  the  Looking  Glass" 

'Twas  brillig,  and  the  slithy  toves 

Did  gyre  and  gimble  in  the  wabe; 
All  mimsy  were  the  borogoves, 

And  the  mome  raths  outgrabe. 

"Beware  the  Jabberwock,  my  son  I 

The  jaws  that  bite,  the  claws  that  catch! 

Beware  the  Jubjub  bird,  and  shun 
The  frumious  Bandersnatch!" 

He  took  his  vorpal  sword  in  hand: 

Long  time  the  manxome  foe  he  sought.— 

So  rested  he  by  the  Tumtum  tree, 
And  stood  awhile  in  thought. 


26o  Lewis  Carroll 

And  as  in  uffish  thought  he  stood, 
The  Jabberwock,  with  eyes  of  flame, 

Came  whiffing  through  the  tulgey  wood. 
And  burbled  as  it  came! 

One,  two!    One,  two!    And  through  and  through 
The  vorpal  blade  went  snicker-snack! 

He  left  it  dead,  and  with  its  head 
He  went  galumphing  back. 

"And  hast  thou  slain  the  Jabberwock? 

Come  to  my  arms,  my  beamish  boy! 
O  frabjous  day !    Callooh !    Callay ! " 

He  chortled  in  his  joy. 

'Twas  brillig,  and  the  slithy  toves 
Did  gyre  and  gimble  in  the  wabe; 

All  mimsy  were  the  borogoves. 
And  the  mome  raths  outgrabe. 


THE   GARDENER'S  SONG 

From  "  Sylvie  and  Bruno  " 

He  thought  he  saw  an  Elephant, 

That  practised  on  a  fife: 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

A  letter  from  his  wife. 
"At  length  I  realize,"  he  said, 

"The  bitterness  of  life!" 

He  thought  he  saw  a  BufTalo 

Upon  the  chimney-piece: 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

His  Sister's  Husband's  Niece. 
"Unless  you  leave  this  house,"  he  said, 

"I'U  send  for  the  Police!" 


The  Gardener's  Song  261 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Rattlesnake 

That  questioned  him  in  Greek: 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

The  Middle  of  Next  Week. 
"The  one  thing  I  regret,"  he  said, 

"Is  that  it  cannot  speak!" 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Banker's  Clerk 

Descending  from  the  'bus: 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

A  Hippopotamus. 
"If  this  should  stay  to  dine,"  he  said, 

"There  won't  be  much  for  us!" 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Kangaroo 

That  worked  a  coffee-mill: 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

A  Vegetable-Pill. 
"Were  I  to  swallow  this,"  he  said, 

"I  should  be  very  ill!" 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Coach-and-Four 

That  stood  beside  his  bed: 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

A  Bear  without  a  Head. 
"Poor  thing,"  he  said,  "poor  silly  thing! 

It's  waiting  to  be  fed!" 

He  thought  he  saw  an  Albatross 

That  fluttered  round  the  lamp: 
He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

A  Penny-Postage-Stamp. 
"You'd  best  be  getting  home,"  he  said: 

"The  nights  are  very  damp!" 

He  thought  he  saw  a  Garden  Door 
That  opened  with  a  key: 


262  Edward  Bowen 

He  looked  again,  and  found  it  was 

A  Double-Rule-of-Three: 
"And  all  its  mystery,"  he  said, 

"Is  clear  as  day  to  me! " 

GEORGE  DU  MAURIER 

1834,  Paris-London,  1S96 
A  LITTLE  WORK 

From  "  Trilby  " 

A  LITTLE  work,  a  little  play 

To  keep  us  going — and  so,  good-day! 

A  little  warmth,  a  little  light 

Of  love's  bestowing — and  so,  good-night! 

A  little  fun,  to  match  the  sorrow 

Of  each  day's  growing — and  so,  good-morrow! 

A  little  trust  that  when  we  die 

We  reap  our  sowing!    And  so — good-bye! 

EDWARD  BOWEN 

1836,  Gloucestershire-Cote  d'Or,  France,  1.901 

V     FORTY  YEARS  ON 

Forty  years  on,  when  afar  and  asunder 

Parted  are  those  who  are  singing  today. 
When  you  look  back,  and  forgetfully  wonder 

What  you  were  like  in  your  work  and  your  play 
Then,  it  may  be,  there  will  often  come  o'er  you 

Glimpses  of  notes  like  the  catch  of  a  song — 
Visions  of  boyhood  shall  float  them  before  you. 

Echoes  of  dreamland  shall  bear  them  along. 


Forty  Years  On  263 

REFRAIN 

Follow  up!  Follow  up!  Follow  up!  Follow  up! 
Till  the  field  ring  again  and  again, 
With  the  tramp  of  the  twenty-two  men, 
Follow  up !    Follow  up ! 

Routs  and  discomfitures,  rushes  and  rallies, 

Bases  attempted,  and  rescued,  and  won. 
Strife  without  anger,  and  art  without  malice,— 

How  will  it  seem  to  you  forty  years  on? 
Then,  you  will  say,  not  a  feverish  minute 

Strained  the  weak  heart,  and  the  wavering  knee, 
Never  the  battle  raged  hottest,  but  in  it 

Neither  the  last  nor  the  faintest  were  we! 

O  the  great  days,  in  the  distance  enchanted, 

Days  of  fresh  air,  in  the  rain  and  the  sun, 
How  we  rejoiced  as  we  struggled  and  panted— 

Hardly  believable,  forty  years  on! 
How  we  discoursed  of  them,  one  with  another, 

Auguring  triumph,  or  balancing  fate, 
Loved  the  ally  with  the  heart  of  a  brother. 

Hated  the  foe  with  a  playing  at  hate! 

Forty  years  on,  growing  older  and  older, 

Shorter  in  wind,  as  in  memory  long. 
Feeble  of  foot  and  rheumatic  of  shoulder, 

What  will  it  help  you  that  once  you  were  strong? 
God  give  us  bases  to  guard  or  beleaguer, 

Games  to  play  out,  whether  earnest  or  fun, 
Fights  for  the  fearless,  and  goals  for  the  eager, 

Twenty,  and  thirty,  and  forty  years  on! 


264  Edward  Bowen 


JACK  AND  JOE 

Jack's  a  scholar,  as  all  men  say, 

Dreams  in  Latin  and  Greek, 
Gobbles  a  grammar  in  half  a  day, 

And  a  lexicon  once  a  week; 
Three  examiners  came  to  Jack, 

"Tell  to  us  all  you  know;" 
But  when  he  began,  "To  Oxford  back," 

They  murmured,  "we  will  go." 

But  Joe  is  a  regular  fool,  says  Jack, 
And  Jack  is  a  fool,  says  Joe. 

Joe's  a  player,  and  no  mistake. 

Comes  to  it  born  and  bred, 
Dines  in  pads  for  the  practice'  sake, 

Goes  with  a  bat  to  bed. 
Came  the  bowler  and  asked  him,  "Pray, 

Shall  I  bowl  you  fast  or  slow?" 
But  the  bowler's  every  hair  was  gray 

Before  he  had  done  with  Joe. 

But  Joe  is  a  regular  fool,  &c. 

Morning  wakes  with  a  rousing  spell, 

Bees  and  honey  and  hive. 
Drones  get  up  at  the  warning  bell, 

But  Jack  was  at  work  at  five. 
Sinks  the  day  on  the  weary  hill, 

Cricketers  homeward  flow; 
All  climb  up  in  the  twilight  chill. 

But  the  last  to  leave  is  Joe. 
But  Joe  is  a  regular  fool,  &c. 

"Fame,"  says  Jack,  "with  the  mind  must  go,' 
Says  Joe,  "With  the  legs  and  back;" 

"What  is  the  use  of  your  arms?"  says  Joe^ 
"Where  are  your  brains?"  says  Jack. 


The  Cure's  Progress  265 

Says  Joe,  "Your  Latin  I  truly  hate," 

Says  Jack,  "I  adore  it  so," 
"But  your  bats,"  says  Jack,  "I  nowhere  rate," 

"My  darlings,"  answers  Joe. 

But  Joe  is  a  regular  fool,  &c. 

Can't  you  settle  it,  Joe  and  Jack, 

Settle  it,  books  and  play? 
Dunce  is  white  and  pedant  is  black, 

Haven't  you  room  for  gray? 
Let  neither  grammar  nor  bats  be  slack, 

Let  brains  with  sinews  grow. 
And  you'll  be  Reverend  Doctor  Jack, 

And  you'll  be  General  Joe! 

But  Joe  is  a  regular  fool,  &c. 


AUSTIN  DOBSON 

1840,  Plymouth-  


THE  CURfi'S  PROGRESS 

Monsieur  the  Cure  down  the  street 

Comes  with  his  kind  old  face,— 
With  his  coat  worn  bare,  and  his  straggling  hair, 

And  his  green  umbrella-case. 

You  may  sec  him  pass  by  the  little  "  Grande  Place,' 

And  the  tiny  " Hotel-de-Ville"; 
He  smiles,  as  he  goes,  to  the  fleuriste  Rose, 

And  the  pompier  Theophile. 

He  turns,  as  a  rule,  through  the  "Marche"  cool. 

Where  the  noisy. fish- wives  call; 
And  his  compliment  pays  to  the  "  Belle  Tlierese," 

As  she  knits  in  her  duskv  stall. 


266  Austin  Dobson 

There's  a  letter  to  drop  at  the  locksmith's  shop, 
And  Toto,  the  locksmith's  niece, 

Has  jubilant  hopes,  for  the  Cure  gropes 
In  his  tails  for  a  pain  d'epice. 

There's  a  little  dispute  with  a  merchant  of  fruit, 

Who  is  said  to  be  heterodox, 
That  will  ended  be  with  a  "Mafoi,  ouil" 

And  a  pinch  from  the  Cure's  box. 

There  is  also  a  word  that  no  one  heard 

To  the  furrier's  daughter  Lou; 
And  a  pale  cheek  fed  with  a  flickering  red, 

And  a  "Bon  Dieu  garde  M'sieu'I" 

But  a  grander  way  for  the  Sous-Prejet, 
And  a  bow  for  Ma'm'selle  Anne; 

And  a  mock  "off-hat"  to  the  Notary's  cat, 
And  a  nod  to  the  Sacristan: — 

For  ever  through  life  the  Cure  goes 
With  a  smile  on  his  kind  old  face — 

With  his  coat  worn  bare,  and  his  straggling  hair, 
And  his  green  umbrella-case. 


URCEUS  EXIT 

I  INTENDED  an  Ode, 

And  it  turned  to  a  Sonnet. 
It  began  a  la  mode, 
I  intended  an  Ode; 
But  Rose  crossed  the  road 

In  her  latest  new  bonnet; 
I  intended  an  Ode; 

And  it  turned  to  a  Sonnet. 


The  Burghers'  Battle  267 


CHARLES  GEORGE  GORDON 

"Rather  be  dead  than  praised,"  he  said, 
That  hero,  like  a  hero  dead, 
In  this  slack-sinewed  age  endued 
With  more  than  antique  fortitude! 

"  Rather  be  dead  than  praised ! "    Shall  we, 
Who  loved  thee,  now  that  Death  sets  free 
Thine  eager  soul,  with  word  and  line 
Profane  that  empty  house  of  thine? 

Nay, — let  us  hold,  be  mute.    Our  pain 
Will  not  be  less  that  we  refrain; 
And  this  our  silence  shall  but  be 
A  larger  monument  to  thee. 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 

1834,  London-London,  1896 

THE  BURGHERS'  BATTLE 

Thick  rise  the  spear-shafts  o'er  the  land 
That  erst  the  harvest  bore; 
The  sword  is  heavy  in  the  hand, 
And  we  return  no  more. 

The  light  wind  waves  the  Ruddy  Fox, 
Our  banner  of  the  war. 
And  ripples  in  the  Running  Ox, 
And  we  return  no  jnore. 

Across  our  stubble  acres  now 

The  teams  go  four  and  four; 

But  worn  out  elders  guide  the  plough 

And  we  return  no  more. 


268  William  Morris 

And  now  the  women  heavy-eyed 
Turn  through  the  open  door, 
From  gazing  down  the  highway  wide 
Where  we  return  no  more. 

The  shadows  of  the  fruited  close 
Dapple  the  feast-hall  floor; 
There  lie  our  dogs  and  dream  and  doze, 
And  we  return  no  more. 

Down  from  the  minster-towcr  to-day 
Fall  the  soft  chimes  of  yore, 
Amidst  the  chattering  jackdaws'  play: 
And  we  return  no  more. 

But  underneath  the  streets  are  still; 
Noon,  and  the  market's  o'er! 
Back  go  the  good  wives  o'er  the  hill; 
For  we  return  no  more. 

What  merchant  to  our  gates  shall  come? 
What  wise  man  bring  us  lore? 
What  abbot  ride  away  to  Rome, 
Now  we  return  no  more? 

What  Mayor  shall  rule  the  hall  we  built? 
Whose  scarlet  sweep  the  floor? 
What  judge  shall  doom  the  robber's  guilt; 
Now  we  return  no  more? 

New  houses  in  the  street  shall  rise 
Where  builded  we  before, 
Of  other  stone,  wrought  otherwise; 
For  we  return  no  more. 

And  crops  shall  cover  field  and  hill 
Unlike  what  once  they  bore. 
And  all  be  done  without  our  will, 
Now  we  return  no  more. 


Home  269 


Look  up!  the  arrows  streak  the  sky, 
The  horns  of  battle  roar; 
The  long  spears  lower  and  draw  nigh, 
And  we  return  no  more. 

Remember  how  beside  the  wain, 
We  spoke  the  word  of  war, 
And  sowed  this  harvest  of  the  plain, 
And  we  return  no  more. 

Lay  spears  about  the  Ruddy  Fox! 
The  days  of  old  are  o'er; 
Heave  sword  about  the  Running  Ox! 
For  we  return  no  more. 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY 

1849,  Gloucester-Surrey,  1903 

HOME 

O,  Falmouth  is  a  fine  town  with  ships  in  the  bay, 
And  I  wish  from  my  heart  it's  there  I  was  to-day; 
I  wish  from  my  heart  I  was  far  away  from  here, 
Sitting  in  my  parlor  and  talking  to  my  dear. 
For  it's  home,  dearie,  home — it's  home  I  want  to  be. 
Our  topsails  are  hoisted,  and  we'll  away  to  sea. 
O,  the  oak  and  the  ash  and  the  bonnie  birken  tree 
They're  all  growing  green  in  the  old  countrie. 

In  Baltimore  a-walking  a  lady  I  did  meet 
With  her  babe  on  her  arm  as  she  came  down  the  street ; 
And  I  thought  how  I  sailed,  and  the  cradle  standing  ready 
For  the  pretty  little  babe  that  has  never  seen  its  daddi«. 
And  it's  home,  dearie,  home, — 


270  William  Ernest  Henley 

0,  if  it  be  a  lass,  she  shall  wear  a  golden  ring; 
And  if  it  be  a  lad,  he  shall  fight  for  his  king; 
With  his  dirk  and  his  hat  and  his  little  jacket  blue 
He  shall  walk  the  quarter-deck  as  his  daddie  used  to  du 
And  it's  home,  dearie,  home, — 

O,  there's  a  wind  a-blowing,  a-blowing  from  the  west, 
And  that  of  all  the  winds  is  the  one  I  Uke  the  best, 
For  it  blows  at  our  backs,  and  it  shakes  our  pennon  free. 
And  it  soon  will  blow  us  home  to  the  old  countrie. 
For  it's  home,  dearie,  home — it's  home  I  want  to  be. 
Our  topsails  are  hoisted,  and  we'll  away  to  sea. 
O,  the  oak  and  the  ash  and  the  bonnie  birken  tree 
They're  all  growing  green  in  the  old  countrie. 

INVICTUS 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

In  the  feU  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud. 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade, 

And  )'et  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds  and  shall  find  me  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate. 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate: 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 


A  Lad  that  is  Gone  271 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

1850,  Edinburgh-Samoa,  1894 

A  LAD  THAT  IS   GONE 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone; 

Say,  could  that  lad  be  I? 
Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 

Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 

Mull  was  astern,  Rum  on  the  port, 

Eigg  on  the  starboard  bow; 
Glory  of  youth  glowed  in  his  soul: 

Where  is  that  glory  now? 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone; 

Say,  could  that  lad  be  I? 
Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 

Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 

Give  me  again  all  that  was  there. 

Give  me  the  sun  that  shone ! 
Give  me  the  eyes,  give  me  the  soul, 

Give  me  the  lad  that's  gone! 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone; 

Say,  could  that  lad  be  I? 
Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 

Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 

Billow  and  breeze,  islands  and  seas, 

Mountains  of  rain  and  sun, 
All  that  was  good,  all  that  was  fair, 

All  that  was  me  is  gone. 


272  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


THE  \AGABOXD 

To  an  Air  of  Sciubert 

Gn"z  to  me  the  life  I  love, 

Let  the  lave  go  by  me. 
Give  the  jolly  heaven  above 

And  the  b>-way  nigh  me. 
Bed  in  the  biish  ■with  stars  to  see. 

Bread  I  dip  in  the  river — 
There's  the  life  for  a  man  like  me. 

There's  the  Ufe  for  ever. 

Let  the  blow  fall  soon  or  late, 

Let  what  will  be  o'er  me; 
Give  the  face  of  earth  around 

And  the  road  before  me. 
Wealth  I  seek  not.  hope  nor  love, 

Nor  a  friend  to  know  me; 
All  I  seek,  the  heaven  above 

And  the  road  below  me. 


Or  let  autumn  fall  on  me 
Where  afield  I  linger. 

Silencing  the  bird  on  tree. 
Biting  the  blue  finger. 

While  as  meal  the  frosty  field- 
Warm  the  fireside  haven — 

Not  to  autumn  wiU  I  yield, 
Not  to  winter  even! 


Let  the  blow  fall  soon  or  late, 
Let  what  wiU  be  o'er  me; 

Give  the  face  of  earth  around. 
.\nd  the  road  before  me. 


Heather  Ale  273 


Wealth  I  ask  not,  hope  nor  love, 
Nor  a  friend  to  know  me; 

All  I  ask.  the  heaven  above 
And  the  road  below  me. 


y 

HEATHER  ALE 

A  GALLOWAY  LEGEXD 

From  the  bonny  bells  of  heather 
They  brewed  a  drink  long-syne 
Was  sweeter  far  than  honey 
Was  stronger  far  than  wine. 
They  brewed  it  and  they  drank  it, 
And  lay  in  blessed  swound 
For  days  and  days  together 
In  their  dwellings  underground. 


There  rose  a  King  in  Scotland, 

A  fell  man  to  his  foes. 

He  smote  the  Picts  in  battle. 

He  hunted  them  like  roes. 

Over  miles  of  the  red  mountain 

He  hunted  as  they  feed. 

And  strewed  the  dwarfish  bodies 

Of  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

Summer  came  in  the  countr>-, 
Red  was  the  heather  bell: 
But  the  manner  of  the  brewing 
None  was  alive  to  teU. 
In  graves  that  were  like  children's 
On  many  a  mountain  head 
The  Brewsters  of  the  Heather 
Lay  numbered  \vith  the  dead. 


274  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

The  King  in  the  red  moorlaad 

Rode  on  a  summer's  day: 

And  the  bees  hummed,  and  the  curlews 

Cried  beside  the  way. 

The  King  rode,  and  was  angry, 

Black  was  his  brow  and  pale, 

To  rule  in  a  land  of  heather 

And  lack  the  Heather  Ale. 


It  fortuned  that  his  vassals, 
Riding  free  on  the  heath, 
Came  on  a  stone  that  was  fallen 
And  vermin  hid  beneath. 
Rudely  plucked  from  their  hiding, 
Never  a  word  they  spoke: 
A  son  and  his  aged  father — 
Last  of  the  dwarfish  folk. 


The  King  sat  high  on  his  charger 
He  looked  on  the  little  men; 
And  the  dwarfish  and  swarthy  couple 
Looked  at  the  King  again 
Down  by  the  shore  he  had  them; 
And  there  on  the  giddy  brink — 
"I  will  give  you  life,  ye  vermin, 
For  the  secret  of  the  drink." 


There  stood  the  son  and  the  father 
And  they  looked  high  and  low: 
The  heather  was  red  around  them, 
The  sea  rumbled  below. 
And  up  and  spoke  the  father, 
Shrill  was  his  voice  to  hear: 
"I  have  a  word  in  private, 
A  word  for  the  royal  ear. 


Heather  Ale  275 

"Life  is  dear  to  the  aged, 

And  honour  a  little  thing: 

I  would  gladly  sell  the  secret", 

Quoth  the  Pict  to  the  King. 

His  voice  was  small  as  a  sparrow's 

And  shrill  and  wonderful  clear; 

"  I  would  gladly  sell  my  secret, 

Only  my  son  I  fear. 

"For  life  is  a  little  matter, 
And  death  is  nought  to  the  young: 
And  I  dare  not  sell  my  honour 
Under  the  eye  of  my  son. 
Take  hun,  O  King,  and  bind  him, 
And  cast  him  far  in  the  deep. 
And  it's  I  will  tell  the  secret 
That  I  have  sworn  to  keep." 

They  took  the  son  and  bound  him. 

Neck  and  heels  in  a  thong. 

And  a  lad  took  him  and  swung  him, 

And  flung  him  far  and  strong. 

And  the  sea  swallowed  his  body. 

Like  that  of  a  child  of  ten: — 

And  there  on  the  cliff  stood  the  father 

Last  of  the  dwarfish  men. 


"True  was  the  w'ord  I  told  you: 
Only  my  son  I  feared: 
For  I  doubt  the  sapling  courage 
That  goes  without  the  beard. 
But  now  in  vain  is  the  torture, 
Fire  shall  never  avail : 
Here  dies  in  my  bosom 
The  secret  of  Heather  Ale." 


276  William  Watson 


REQUIEM 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  He. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 


This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


WILLIAM  WATSON 

1858,  Yorkshire 

THE  KEY-BOARD 

FiVE-AtJD-THiRTY  black  slaves, 

Half-a-hundred  white, 
All  their  duty  but  to  sing 

For  their  Queen's  delight, 
Now  with  throats  of  thunder, 

Now  with  dulcet  lips, 
While  she  rules  them  royally 

With  her  finger-tips! 

When  she  quits  her  palace, 

All  the  slaves  are  dumb — 
Dumb  with  dolor  till  the  Queen 

Back  to  Court  is  come: 
Dumb  the  throats  of  thunder, 

Dumb  the  dulcet  lips, 
Lacking  all  the  sovereignty 

Of  her  finger-tips. 


Going  Down  Hill  on  a  Bicycle         277 

Dusky  slaves  and  pallid, 

Ebon  slaves  and  white, 
When  the  Queen  was  on  her  throne 

How  you  sang  to-night ! 
Ah,  the  throats  of  thunder! 

Ah,  the  dulcet  lips! 
Ah,  the  gracious  tyrannies 

Of  her  finger-tips! 

Silent,  silent,  silent, 

All  your  voices  now; 
Was  it  then  her  life  alone 

Did  your  life  endow? 
Waken,  throats  of  thunder! 

Waken,  dulcet  lips! 
Touched  to  immortality 

By  her  finger-tips. 


HENRY  CHARLES  BEECHING 

1859,  London 

GOING  DOWN  HILL  ON  A  BICYCLE 

A  boy's  song 

With  lifted  feet,  hands  still, 
I  am  poised,  and  down  the  hill 
Dart,  with  heedful  mind; 
The  air  goes  by  in  a  wind. 

Swifter  and  yet  more  swift. 
Till  the  heart  with  a  mighty  lift 
Makes  the  lungs  laugh,  the  throat  cry:— 
"O  bird,  see;  see,  bird,  I  fly. 

"Is  this,  is  this  your  joy? 
O  bird,  then  I,  though  a  boy, 


278  Henry  Newbolt 

For  a  golden  moment  share 
Your  feathery  life  in  air!" 

Say,  heart,  is  there  aught  like  this 
In  a  world  that  is  full  of  bliss? 
'Tis  more  than  skating,  bound 
Steel-shod  to  the  level  ground. 

Speed  slackens  now,  I  float 
Awhile  in  my  airy  boat; 
Till,  when  the  wheels  scarce  crawl, 
JVIy  feet  to  the  treadles  fall. 

Alas,  that  the  longest  hill 
Must  end  in  a  vale;  but  still, 
Who  climbs  with  toil,  wheresoe'er, 
Shall  find  wings  waiting  there. 


HENRY  NEWBOLT 

1 86 2,  Staffordshire 


DRAKE'S  DRUM 
Sir  Francis  Drake,  1540?-!  596 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand  mile  away, 

(Capten,  art  tha  slecpin'  there  below?), 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot  in  Nombre  Dios  Bay, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Yarnder  lumes  the  Island,  yarnder  lie  the  ships 

Wi'  sailor  lads  a-dancin'  heel-an'-toe. 
An'  the  shore-lights  flashin',  an'  the  night-tide  dashin', 

He  sees  et  arl  so  plainly  as  he  saw  et  long  ago. 

Drake  he  was  a  Devon  man,  an'  ruled  the  Devon  seas 
(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?), 


Vital  Lampada  279 

Rovin'  though  his  death  fell,  he  went  wi'  heart  at  ease, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
"Take  my  drum  to  England,  hang  et  by  the  shore, 

Strike  et  when  your  powder's  runnin'  low; 
If  the  Dons  sight  Devon,  I'll  quit  the  port  o'  Heaven, 

An'  drum  them  up  the  Channel  as  we  drummed  them  long 
ago." 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  till  the  great  Armadas  come, 

(Cap ten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?), 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot,  listenin'  for  the  drum, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Call  him  on  the  deep  sea,  call  him  up  the  Sound, 

Call  him  when  ye  sail  to  meet  the  foe; 
Where  the  old  trade's  plyin'  an'  the  old  flag  flyin', 

They  shall  find  him  ware  an'  wakin',  as  they  found  him  long 
ago! 

VITAi  LAMPADA 

There's  a  breathless  hush  in  the  Close  to-night — 

Ten  to  make  and  the  match  to  win — 
A  bumping  pitch  and  a  blinding  light, 

An  hour  to  play  and  the  last  man  in. 
And  it's  not  for  the  sake  of  a  ribboned  coat. 

Or  the  selfish  hope  of  a  season's  fame, 
But  his  Captain's  hand  on  his  shoulder  smote — 

"  Play  up!  play  up!  and  play  the  game!" 

The  sand  of  the  desert  is  sodden  red — 

Red  with  the  wreck  of  a  square  that  broke — 
The  Catling's  jammed  with  the  Colonel  dead, 

And  the  regiment  blind  with  dust  and  smoke. 
The  river  of  death  has  brimmed  his  banks, 

And  England's  far,  and  Honor  a  name, 
But  the  voice  of  a  schoolboy  rallies  the  ranks: 

"Play  up!  play  up!  and  play  the  game!" 


28o  Henry  Newbolt 

This  is  the  word  that  year  by  year, 

While  in  her  place  the  School  is  set, 
Every  one  of  her  sons  must  hear, 

And  none  that  hears  it  dare  forget. 
This  they  all  with  a  joyful  mind 

Bear  through  life  like  a  torch  in  flame, 
And  falling  fling  to  the  host  behind — 

"Play  up!  play  up!  and  play  the  game!" 


CLIFTON  CHAPEL 

This  is  the  Chapel:  here,  my  son, 

Your  father  thought  the  thoughts  of  youth, 
And  heard  the  words  that  one  by  one 

The  touch  of  Life  has  turned  to  truth. 
Here  in  a  day  that  is  not  far, 

You  too  may  speak  with  noble  ghosts 
Of  manhood  and  the  vows  of  war 

You  made  before  the  Lord  of  Hosts. 

To  set  the  cause  above  renown. 

To  love  the  game  beyond  the  prize. 
To  honor,  while  you  strike  him  down, 

The  foe  that  comes  with  fearless  eyes; 
To  count  the  life  of  battle  good, 

And  dear  the  land  that  gave  you  birth. 
And  dearer  yet  the  brotherhood 

That  binds  the  brave  of  all  to  earth — 

My  son,  the  oath  is  yours:  the  end 

Is  His,  Who  built  the  world  of  strife. 
Who  gave  His  children  Pain  for  friend, 

And  Death  for  surest  hope  of  life, 
^o-day  and  here  the  fight's  begun, 

Of  the  great  fellowship  you're  free; 
Henceforth  the  School  and  you  are  one, 

And  what  You  are,  the  race  shall  be. 


Fuzzy-wuzzy  281 

God  send  you  fortune:  yet  be  sure, 

Among  the  lights  that  gleam  and  pass, 
You'll  live  to  follow  none  more  pure 

Than  that  which  glows  on  yonder  brass. 
"Qui  proctd  hinc,"  the  legend's  writ — 

The  frontier-grave  is  far  away — 
"Qui  ante  diem  periit: 

Sed  miles,  sed  pro  pair  id." 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 

1865,  Bombay 

"^  FUZZY-WUZZY 

Soudan  Expeditionary  Force,  1889 

We've  fought  with  many  men  acrost  the  seas, 

An'  some  of  'em  was  brave  an'  some  was  not: 
The  Pay  than  an'  the  Zulu  an'  Burmese; 

But  the  Fuzzy  was  the  finest  o'  the  lot. 
We  never  got  a  ha'  porth's  change  of  'im: 

'E  squatted  in  the  scrub  an'  'ocked  our  'orses, 
'E  cut  our  sentries  up  at  Sua^im, 

An'  'e  played  the  cat  an'  banjo  with  our  forces. 

So  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  at  your  'ome  in  the 

Sowdan ; 
You're  a  pore  benighted   'eathen   but   a   first-class 

fightin'  man; 
We  gives  you  your  certifikit,  an'  if  you  want  it  signed 
We'll  come    an'   'ave  a  romp    with    you  whenever 
you're  inclined. 

We  took  our  chanst  among  the  Kyber  'ills, 

The  Boers  knocked  us  silly  at  a  mile, 
The  Burman  guv  us  Irriwaddy  chills. 

An'  a  Zulu  impi  dished  us  up  in  style: 


282  Rudyard  Kipling 

But  all  we  ever  got  from  such  as  they 

Was  pop  to  what  the  Fuzzy  made  us  swaller; 
We  'eld  our  bloomin'  own,  the  papers  say, 

But  man  for  man  the  Fuzzy  knocked  us  'oiler. 

Then  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy- Wuzzy,  an'  the  missis  and 

the  kid; 
Our  orders  was  to  break  you,  an'  of  course  we  went 

and  did. 
We  sloshed  you  with  Martinis,  an'  it  wasn't  'ardly 

fair; 
But  for  all  the  odds  again  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzz,  you  bruk 
the  square. 

'E  'asn't  got  no  papers  of  'is  own, 

'E  'asn't  got  no  medals  nor  rewards. 
So  we  must  certify  the  skill  'e's  shown 

In  usin'  of  'is  long  two-'anded  swords: 
When  'e's  'oppin'  in  an'  out  among  the  bush 

With  'is  coffin-'eaded  shield  an'  shovel-spear, 
A  'appy  day  with  Fuzzy  on  the  rush 

Will  last  a  'ealthy  Tommy  for  a  year. 

So  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  an'  your  friends  which 

is  no  more, 
If  we  'adn't  lost  some  messmates  we  would  'clp  you 

to  deplore; 
But  give  an'  take's  the  gospel,  an'  we'll  call  the  bar- 
gain fair, 
For  if  you  'ave  lost  more  than  us,  you  crumpled  up 
the  square ! 

'E  rushes  at  the  smoke  when  we  let  drive. 

An',  before  we  know,  'e's  'ackin'  at  our  'ead; 
'E's  all  'ot  sand  an'  ginger  when  alive. 

An'  'e's  generally  shammin'  when  'e's  dead. 
'E's  a  daisy,  'e's  a  ducky,  'e's  a  lamb! 

'E's  a  injia-rubber  idiot  on  a  spree, 
'E's  the  only  thing  that  doesn't  care  a  damn 

For  a  Regiment  o'  British  Infantree. 


A  Ballad  of  East  and  West  283 

So  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  at  your  'ome  in  the 

Sowdan ; 
You're   a   pore   benighted    'eathen   but   a   first-class 

fightin'  man; 
An'   'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  with  your  'ayrick 

'ead  of  hair — 
You  big  black   boundin'   beggar — for  you   broke  a 

British  square. 


A  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST 

Oh,  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never  the  twain  shall  tneet, 
Till  Earth  and  Sky  stand  presently  at  God's  great  Judgment  Seat; 
But  there  is  neither  East  nor  West,  Border,  nor  Breed,  nor  Birth, 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  tho'  they  come  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth! 

Kamal  is  out  with  twenty  men  to  raise  the  Borderside, 

And  he  has  lifted  the  Colonel's  mare  that  is  the  Colonel's 

pride: 
He  has  lifted  her  out  of  the  stable-door  between  the  dawn  and 

the  day. 
And  turned  the  calkins  upon  her  feet,  and  ridden  her  far  away. 

Then  up  and  spoke  the  Colonel's  son  that  led  a  troop  of  the 

Guides: 
"Is  there  never  a  man  of  all  my  men  can  say  where  Kamal 

hides?" 
Then  up  and  spoke  Mahommed  Khan,  the  son  of  the  Ressaldar: 
"If  ye  know  the  track  of  the  morning-mist,  ye  know  where  his 

pickets  are. 

"At  dusk  he  harries  the  Abazai — at  dawn  he  is  into  Bonair, 
But  he  must  go  by  Fort  Bukloh  to  his  own  place  to  fare, 
So  if  ye  gallop  to  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  a  bird  can  fly, 
By  the  favor  of  God  ye  may  cut  him  off  ere  he  win  to  the  Tongue 
of  Jagai. 


284  Rudyard  Kipling 

"But  if  he  be  past  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  right  swiftly  turn  ye 

then, 
For  the  length  and  breadth  of  that  grisly  plain  is  sown  with 

Kamal's  men. 
There  is  rock  to  the  left,  and  rock  to  the  right,  and  low  lean 

thorn  between, 
And  ye  may  hear  a  breech-bolt  snick  where  never  a  man  is  seen." 

The  Colonel's  son  has  taken  a  horse,  and  a  raw  rough  dun  was 

he. 
With  the  mouth  of  a  bell  and  the  heart  of  Hell  and  the  head  of 

the  gallows-tree. 
The  Colonel's  son  to  the  Fort  has  won,  they  bid  him  stay  to 

eat — 
Who  rides  at  the  tail  of  a  Border  thief,  he  sits  not  long  at  his 

meat. 

He's  up  and  away  from  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  he  can  fly, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  in  the  gut  of  the  Tongue 

of  Jagai, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  with  Kamal  upon  her 

back, 
And  when  he  could  spy  the  white  of  her  eye,  he  made  the  pistol 

crack. 

He  has  fired  once,  he  has  fired  twice,  but  the  whistling  ball 

went  wide. 
"Ye  shoot  like  a  soldier,"  Kamal  said.    "Show  now  if  ye  can 

ride." 
It's  up  and  over  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  as  blown  dust-devils 

go, 
The  dun  he  fled  like  a  stag  of  ten,  l)ut  the  mare  like  a  barren 
doe. 

The  dun  he  leaned  against  the  bit  and  slugged  his  head  above, 
But  the  red  mare  played  with  the  snaffle-bars  as  a  lady  plays 
with  a  glove. 


A  Ballad  of  East  and  West  285 

There  was  rock  to  the  left,  and  rock  to  the  right,  and  low  lean 

thorn  between. 
And  thrice  he  heard  a  breech-bolt  snick  tho'  never  a  man  was 

seen. 

They  have  ridden  the  low  moon  out  of  the  sky,  their  hoofs  drum 
up  the  dawn. 

The  dun  he  went  like  a  wounded  bull,  but  the  mare  hke  a  new- 
roused  fawn. 

The  dun  he  fell  at  a  water-course — in  a  woful  heap  fell  he, 

And  Kamal  has  turned  the  red  mare  back,  and  pulled  the  rider 
free. 

He  has  knocked  the  pistol  out  of  his  hand — small  room  was 

there  to  strive, 
'"Twasonly  by  favor  of  mine,"  quoth  he,  "ye  rode  so  longaHve: 
There  was  not  a  rock  for  twenty  mile,  there  was  not  a  clump  of 

tree 
But  covered  a  man  of  my  own  men  with  his  rifle  cocked  on  his 

knee. 

"If  I  had  raised  my  bridle-hand,  as  I  have  held  it  low, 
The  little  jackals  that  flee  so  fast  were  feasting  all  in  a  row; 
If  I  had  bowed  my  head  on  my  breast,  as  I  have  held  it  high, 
The  kite  that  whistles  above  us  now  were  gorged  till  she  could 
not  fly." 

Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son:  "Do  good  to  bird  and  beast, 
But  count  who  come  for  the  broken  meats,  before  thou  makest 

a  feast. 
If  there  should  follow  a  thousand  swords  to  carry  my  bones 

away. 
Belike  the  price  of  a  jackal's  meal  were  more  than  a  thief  could 

pay. 

"They  will  feed  their  horse  on  the  standing  crop,  their  men  on 

the  garnered  grain. 
The  thatch  of  the  byres  will  serve  their  fires  when  all  the  cattle 

are  slain. 


286  Rudyard  Kipling 

But  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  fair — thy  brethren  wait  to  sup, 
The  hound  is  kin  to  the  jackal-spawn — howl,  dog,  and  call 
them  up. 

"And  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  high,  in  steer,  and  gear, 

and  stack, 
Give  me  my  father's  mare  again,  and  I'll  fight  my  own  way 

back!" 
Kamal  has  gripped  him  by  the  hand  and  set  him  upon  his  feet 
"No  talk  shall  be  of  dogs,"  said  he,  "when  wolf  and  grey-woli 

meet. 

"May  I  eat  dirt  if  thou  hast  hurt  of  me  in  deed  or  breath; 
What  dam  of  lances  brought  thee  forth  to  jest  at  the  dawn  with 

Death?" 
Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son:  "I  hold  by  the  blood  of  m.y 

clan: 
Take  up  the  mare  for  my  father's  gift — by  God  she  has  carried 

a  man!" 

The  red  mare  ran  to  the  Colonel's  son,  and  nuzzled  against  his 

breast; 
"We  be  two  strong  men,"  said  Kamal  then,  "but  she  loveth 

the  younger  best. 
So  she  shall  go  with  a  lifter's  dower,  my  turquoise-studded  rein. 
My   broidcred    saddle   and   saddle-cloth,    and   silver  stirrups 

twain." 

The  Colonel's  son  a  pistol  drew  and  held  it  muzzle-end, 

"Ye  have  taken  the  one  from  a  foe,"  said  he;  "will  ye  take  the 

mate  from  a  friend?" 
"A  gift  for  a  gift,"  said  Kamal  straight;  "a  limb  for  the  risk 

of  a  limb. 
Thy  father  has  sent  his  son  to  me,  I'll  send  my  son  to  him! " 

With  that  he  whistled  his  only  son,   that  dropped  from  a 

mountain-crest — 
He  trod  the  ling  like  a  buck  in  spring,  and  he  looked  like  a  lance 

in  rest. 


A  Ballad  of  East  and  West  287 

"Now,  here  is  thy  master,"  Kamal  said,  "who  leads  a  troop  of 

the  Guides, 
And  thou  must  ride  at  his  left  side  as  shield  on  shoulder  rides. 

"Till  Death  or  I  cut  loose  the  tie,  at  camp,  and  board,  and  bed; 

Thy  life  is  his — thy  fate  it  is  to  guard  him  with  thy  head. 

So  thou  must  eat  the  White  Queen's  meat,  and  all  her  foes  are 

thine. 
And  thou  must  harry  thy  father's  hold  for  the  peace  of  the 

Border-line. 

"And  thou  must  make  a  trooper  tough,  and  hack  thy  way  to 

power — 
Belike  they  wuU  raise  thee  to  Ressaldar  when  I  am  hanged  in 

Peshawur." 
They  have  looked  each  other  between  the  eyes,  and  there  they 

found  no  fault. 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood  on  leavened 

bread  and  salt: 

They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood  on  fire  and 

fresh-cut  sod. 
On  the  hilt  and  the  haft  of  the  Khyber  knife,  and  the  wondrous 

names  of  God. 
The  Colonel's  son  he  rides  the  mare  and  Kamal's  boy  the 

dun, 
And  two  have  come  back  to  Fort  Bukloh  where  there  went 

forth  but  one. 

And  when  they  drew  to  the  Quarter-Guard,  full  twenty  swords 

flew  clear — 
There  was  not  a  man  but  carried  his  feud  with  the  blood  of  the 

mountaineer. 
"Ha'  done!  ha'  done!"  said  the  Colonel's  son.     "Put  up  the 

steel  at  your  sides! 
Last  night  ye  had  struck  at  a  Border  thief — to-night  'tis  a  man 

of  the  Guides!" 


288  Rudyard  Kipling 

Oh,  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never  the  twain  shall  meet, 
Till  Earth  and  Sky  stand  presently  at  God's  great  Judgment  Seat; 
But  there  is  neither  East  nor  West,  Border,  nor  Breed,  nor  Birth, 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  tho'  they  come  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth! 


^  THE  EXPLORER 

"There's  no  sense  in  going  further — it's  the  edge  of  cultiva- 
tion," 
So  they  said,  and  I  beheved  it — broke  my  land  and  sowed 
my  crop — 
Built  my  barns  and  strung  my  fences  in  the  little  border  station 
Tucked  away  below  the  foothills  where  the  trails  run  out  and 
stop. 

Till  a  voice,  as  bad  as  Conscience,  rang  interminable  changes 

On  one  everlasting  Whisper  day  and  night  repeated — ^o: 
"  Something  hidden.    Go  and  find  it.    Go  and  look  behind  the 
Ranges — 
Something  lost  behind  the  Ranges.    Lost  and  waiting  for  you. 
Go!" 

So  I  went,  worn  out  of  patience;  never  told  my  nearest  neigh- 
bors— 
Stole  away  with  pack  and  ponies — left  'em  drinking  in  the 
town; 
And  the  faith  that  moveth  mountains  didn't  seem  to  help  my 
labors 
As  I  faced  the  sheer  main-ranges,  whipping  up  and  leading 
down. 

March  by  march  I  puzzled  through  'em,  turning  flanks  and 
dodging  shoulders. 
Hurried  on  in  hope  of  water,  headed  back  for  lack  of  grass; 


The  Explorer  289 

Till  I  camped  above  the  tree-line — drifted  snow  and  naked 
boulders — 
Felt  free  air  astir  to  windward — knew  I'd  stumbled  on  the 
Pass. 


Thought  to  name  it  for  the  finder:  but  that  night  the  Norther 
found  me — 
Froze  and  killed  the  plains-bred  ponies:  so  I  called  the  camp 
Despair 
(It's  the  Railway  Gap  to-day,  though.)     Then  my  Whisper 
waked  to  hound  me: — 
"Something  lost  behind  the  Ranges.    Over  yonder.    Go  you 
there!" 


Then  I  knew,  the  while  I  doubted — knew  His  Hand  was  certain 
o'er  me. 
Still — it  might  be  self-delusion — -scores  of  better  men  had 
died — 
I  could  reach  the  township  living,  but  .  .  .  He  knows  what 
terrors  tore  me.  .  .  . 
But  I  didn't  .  .  .  but  I  didn't.    I  went  down  the  other  side. 

Till  the  snow  ran  out  in  flowers,  and  the  flowers  turned  to  aloes, 
And  the  aloes  sprung  to  thickets  and  a  brimming  stream 
ran  by; 
But  the  thickets  dwined  to  thorn-scrub,  and  the  water  drained 
to  shallows — 
And  I  dropped  again  on  desert,  blasted  earth,  and  blasting 
sky.  .  .  . 

I  remember  lighting  fires;  I  remember  sitting  by  them; 
'    I  remember  seeing  faces,  hearing  voices  through  the  smoke; 
I  remember  they  were  fancy — for  I  threw  a  stone  to  try  'em. 
"  Something  lost  behind  the  Ranges,"  was  the  only  word  they 
spoke. 


290  Rudyard  Kipling 

I  remember  going  crazy.    I  remember  that  I  knew  it. 

When  I  heard  myself  hallooing  to  the  funny  folk  I  saw. 
Very  full  of  dreams  that  desert:  but  my  two  legs  took  me 
through  it.  .  ,  . 
And  I  used  to  watch  'em  moving  with  the  toes  all  black  and 
raw. 

But  at  last  the  country  altered — White  man's  country  past 
disputing — 
RoUing  grass  and  open  timber,  with  a  hint  of  hills  behind — 
There  I  found  me  food  and  water,  and  I  lay  a  week  recruiting, 
Got  my  strength  and  lost  my  nightmares.    Then  I  entered 
on  my  find. 

Thence  I  ran  my  first  rough  survey — chose  my  trees  and  blazed 
and  ringed  'cm — ■ 
Week  by  week  I  pried  and  sampled — week  by  week  my  find- 
ings grew. 
Saul  he  went  to  look  for  donkeys,  and  by  God  he  found  a  king- 
dom! 
But  by  God,  who  sent  His  Whisper,  I  had  struck  the  worth 
of  two! 

Up  along  the  hostile  mountains,  where  the  hair-poised  snow- 
slide  shivers- 
Down  and  through  the  big  fat  marshes  that  the  virgin  ore-bed 
stains, 
Till  I  heard  the  mile-wide  mutterings  of  unimagincd  rivers 
And  beyond  the  nameless  timber  saw  illimitable  plains! 

Plotted  sites  of  future  cities,  traced  the  easy  grades  between 
'em; 
Watched  unharnessed  rapids  wasting  fifty  thousand  head  an 
hour; 
Counted  leagues  of  water-frontage  through  the  ax-ripe  woods 
that  screen  'em — ■ 
Saw  the  plant  to  feed  a  people — up  and  waiting  for  the  power! 


^  The  Explorer  291 

Well  I  know  who'll  take  the  credit — all  the  clever  chaps  that 
followed — 
Came,  a  dozen  men  together — never  knew  my  desert  fears; 
Tracked  me  by  the  camps  I'd  quitted,  used  the  water  holes 
I'd  hollowed. 
They'll  go  back  and  do  the  talking.     They'll  be  called  the 
Pioneers ! 

They  will  find  my  sites  of  townships — not  the  cities  that  I  set 
there. 
They  will  rediscover  rivers — not  my  rivers  heard  at  night. 
By  my  old  marks  and  bearings  they  will  show  me  how  to  get 
there, 
By  the  lonely  cairns  I  builded  they  will  guide  my  feet  aright. 

Have  I  named  one  single  river?     Have  I  claimed  one  single 
acre? 
Have  I  kept  one   single   nugget — (barring  samples)?   No, 
not  I. 
Because  my  price  was  paid  me  ten  times  over  by  my  Maker. 
But  you  wouldn't  understand  it.    You  go  up  and  occupy. 

Ores  you'll  find  there;  wood  and  cattle;  water  transit  sure  and 
steady 
(That  should  keep  the  railway  rates  down),  coal  and  iron  at 
your  doors. 
God  took  care  to  hide  that  country  till  He  judged  His  people 
ready, 
Then  He  chose  me  for  His  Whisper,  and  I've  found  it,  and 
it's  yours! 

Yes,  your  "Never-never  country" — yes,  your  "edge  of  culti- 
vation" 
And  "no  sense  in  going  further" — till  I  crossed  the  i;ange 
to  see. 
God  forgive  me !    No,  I  didn't.    It's  God's  present  to  our  nation. 
Anybody  might  have  found  it,  but — His  Whisper  came  to 
Me! 


292  Rudyard  Kipling 


RECESSIONAL 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old — 
Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle  line — ■ 

Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies — 
The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart — 

Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget— lest  we  forget! 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away — 
On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire — 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre! 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet. 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 

Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe- 
Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use. 

Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard — 

All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 

And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard,^ 

For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word. 

Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord!    amen. 


Cargoes  293 


L'ENVOI 

When  Earth's  last  picture  is  painted,  and  the  tubes  are  twisted 

and  dried, 
When  the  oldest  colors  have  faded,  and  the  youngest  critic  has 

died, 
We  shall  rest,  and,  faith,  we  shall  need  it — lie  down  for  an  eon 

or  two, 
Till  the  Master  of  all  good  workmen  shall  set  us  to  work  anew  I 

And  those  that  w-ere  good  shall  be  happy:  they  shall  sit  in  a 

golden  chair; 
They  shall  splash  at  a  ten  league  canvas  with  brushes  of  comet's 

hair; 
They  shall  find  real  saints  to  draw  from — Magdalene,  Peter, 

and  Paul; 
They  shall  work  for  an  age  at  a  sitting  and  never  be  tired  at  all! 

And  only  the  Master  shall  praise  us,  and  only  the  Master  shall 

blame; 
And  no  one  shall  work  for  money,  and  no  one  shall  work  for 

fame; 
But  each  for  the  joy  of  the  working,  and  each,  in  his  separate 

star 
^hall  draw  the  Thing  as  he  sees  It  for  the  God  of  things  as 

They  Are! 

JOHN  MASEFIELD 

Gloucestershire 

CARGOES 

Quinquireme  of  Nineveh  from  distant  Ophir, 

Rowing  home  to  haven  in  sunny  Palestine, 

With  a  cargo  of  ivory, 

And  apes  and  peacocks, 

Sandalwood,  cedarwood,  and  sweet  white  wine. 


294  John  Masefield 

Stately  Spanish  galleon  coming  from  the  Isthmus, 

Dipping  through  the  Tropics  by  the  palm-green  shores, 

With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 

Emeralds,  amethysts, 

Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moidores. 

Dirty  British  coaster  with  a  salt-caked  smokestack, 

Butting  through  the  Channel  in  the  mad  March  days, 

With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal, 

Road-rails,  pig-lead. 

Firewood,  iron-ware,  and  cheap  tin  trays. 


AN  OLD  SONG  RE-SUNG 

I  saw  a  ship  a-sailing,  a-sailing,  a-saiHng, 
With  emeralds  and  rubies  and  sapphires  in  her  hold; 
And  a  bosun  in  a  blue  coat  bawHng  at  the  railing, 
Piping  through  a  silver  call  that  had  a  chain  of  gold; 
The  summer  wind  was  failing  and  the  tall  ship  rolled. 

I  saw  a  ship  a-steering,  a-steering,  a-steering. 

With  roses  in  red  thread  worked  upon  her  sails; 

With  sacks  of  purple  amethysts,  the  spoils  of  buccaneering, 

Skins  of  musky  yellow  wine,  and  silks  in  bales. 

Her  merry  men  were  cheering,  hauling  on  the  brails. 

I  saw  a  ship  a-sinking,  a-sinking,  a-sinking, 

With  glittering  sea-water  splashing  on  her  decks. 

With  seamen  in  her  spirit-room  singing  songs  and  drinking, 

Pulling  claret-bottles  down,  and  knocking  off  the  necks; 

The  broken  glass  was  chinking  as  she  sank  among  the  wrecks. 


■'     SEA  FEVER 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea  and  the  sky, 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer  her  by; 


A  Song  of  Sherwood  295 

And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song  and  the  white  sail's 

shaking, 
And  a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face,  and  a  grey  dawn  breaking. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the  running  tide 
Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be  denied; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white  clouds  flying, 
And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume,  and  the  sea-gulls 
crying. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  vagrant  gypsy  hfe. 
To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way  where  the  wind's  Hke  a 

whetted  knife; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yarn  from  a  laughing  fellow-rover, 
And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when  the  long  trick's  over. 


ALFRED  NOYES 

1880,  Staffordshire 

^  K  SONG  OF  SHERWOOD 

Sherwood  in  the  twilight,  is  Robin  Hood  awake? 
Grey  and  ghostly  shadows  are  gliding  through  the  brake, 
Shadows  of  the  dappled  deer,  dreaming  of  the  morn, 
Dreaming  of  a  shadowy  man  that  winds  a  shadowy  horn. 

Robin  Hood  is  here  again:  all  his  merry  thieves 

Hear  a  ghostly  bugle-note  shivering  through  the  leaves, 

Calling  as  he  used  to  call,  faint  and  far  away. 

In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Merry,  merry  England  has  kissed  the  lips  of  June: 
All  the  wings  of  fairyland  were  here  beneath  the  moon, 
Like  a  flight  of  rose-leaves  fluttering  in  a  mist 
Of  opal  and  ruby  and  pearl  and  amethyst. 


296  Alfred  Noyes 

Merry,  merry  England  is  waking  as  of  old, 
With  eyes  of  blither  hazel  and  hair  of  brighter  gold : 
For  Robin  Hood  is  here  again  beneath  the  bursting  spray 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Love  is  in  the  greenwood  building  him  a  house 
Of  wild  rose  and  hawthorn  and  honeysuckle  boughs: 
Love  is  in  the  greenwood,  dawn  is  in  the  skies. 
And  Marian  is  waiting  with  a  glory  in  her  eyes. 

Hark!  The  dazzled  laverock  climbs  the  golden  steep! 

Marian  is  waiting:  is  Robin  Hood  asleep? 

Round  the  fairy  grass-rings  frolic  elf  and  fay, 

In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Oberon,  Oberon,  rake  away  the  gold. 
Rake  away  the  red  leaves,  roll  away  the  mould, 
Rake  away  the  gold  leaves,  roll  away  the  red. 
And  wake  Will  Scarlet  from  his  leafy  forest  bed. 

Friar  Tuck  and  Little  John  are  riding  down  together 
With  quarter-staff  and  drinking  can  and  grey  goose-feather. 
The  dead  are  coming  back  again,  the  years  are  rolled  away 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Softly  over  Sherwood  the  south  wind  blows. 
All  the  heart  of  England  hid  in  every  rose 
Hears  across  the  greenwood  the  sunny  whisper  leap, 
Sherwood  in  the  red  dawn,  is  Robin  Hood  asleep? 

Hark,  the  voice  of  England  wakes  him  as  of  old 
And,  shattering  the  silence  with  a  cry  of  brighter  gold 
Bugles  in  the  greenwood  echo  from  the  steep, 
Sherwood  in  the  red  dawn,  is  Robin  Hood  asleep? 

Where  the  deer  are  gliding  down  the  shadowy  glen 
All  across  the  glades  of  fern  he  calls  his  merry  men — 
Doublets  of  the  Lincoln  green  glancing  through  the  May 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day — 


The  Highwayman  297 

Calls  them  and  they  answer:  from  aisles  of  oak  and  ash 
Rings  the  Follow!  Follow!  and  the  boughs  begin  to  crash, 
The  ferns  begin  to  flutter  and  the  flowers  begin  to  fly, 
And  through  the  crimson  dawning  the  robber  band  goes  by. 

Robin!  Robin!  Robin!    All  his  merry  thieves 
Answer  as  the  bugle-note  shivers  through  the  leaves, 
Calling  as  he  used  to  call,  faint  and  far  away, 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 


^^ 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN 

Part  I 


The  wind  was  a  torrent  of  darkness  among  the  gusty  trees. 
The  moon  was  a  ghostly  galleon  tossed  upon  cloudy  seas. 
The  road  was  a  ribbon  of  moonlight  over  the  purple  moor, 
And  the  highwayman  came  riding — 

Riding — riding — 
The  highwayman  came  riding,  up  to  the  old  inn  door. 

He'd  a  French  cocked-hat  on  his  forehead,  a  bunch  of  lace  at 

his  chin, 
A  coat  of  the  claret  velvet,  and  breeches  of  brown  doe-skin; 
They  fitted  with  never  a  wrinkle:  his  boots  were  up  to  his  thigh! 
And  he  rode  with  a  jeweled  twinkle. 
His  pistol  butts  a-twinkle, 
His  rapier  hilt  a-twinkle,  under  the  jeweled  sky. 

Over  the  cobbles  he  clattered  and  clashed  in  the  dark  inn-yard, 
And  he  tapped  with  his  whip  on  the  shutters,  but  all  was  locked 

and  barred; 
He  whistled  a  tune  to  the  window,  and  who  should  be  waiting 

there 
But  the  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 
Plaiting  a  dark  red  love-knot  into  her  long  black  hair. 


298  Alfred  Noyes 

And  dark  in  the  dark  old  inn-yard  a  stable-wicket  creaked 
Where  Tim  the  ostler  listened;  his  face  was  white  and  peaked; 
His  eyes  were  hollows  of  madness,  his  hair  like  moldy  hay, 
But  he  loved  the  landlord's  daughter. 

The  landlord's  red-lipped  daughter. 
Dumb  as  a  dog  he  listened,  and  he  heard  the  robber  say — 

"One  kiss,  my  bonny  sweetheart,  I'm  after  a  prize  to-night. 
But  I  shall  be  back  with  the  yellow  gold  before  the  morning 

light; 
Yet,  if  they  press  me  sharply,  and  harry  me  through  the  day, 
Then  look  for  me  by  moonlight, 

Watch  for  me  by  moonlight, 
I'll  come  to  thee  by  moonlight,  though  hell  should  bar  the  way." 

He  rose  upright  in  the  stirrups;  he  scarce  could  reach  her  hand, 
But  she  loosened  her  hair  i'  the  casement!    His  face  burnt  like 

a  brand 
As  the  black  cascade  of  perfume  came  tumbling  over  his  breast; 
And  he  kissed  its  waves  in  the  moonlight, 

(Oh,  sweet  black  waves  in  the  moonhght!) 
Then  he  tugged  at  his  rein  in  the  moonlight,  and  galloped  away 

to  the  West. 


Part  II 

He  did  not  come  in  the  dawning;  he  did  not  come  at  noon; 
And  out  o'  the  tawny  sunset,  before  the  rise  o'  the  moon. 
When  the  road  was  a  gipsy's  ribbon,  looping  the  purple  moor, 
A  red-coat  troop  came  marching — 

Marching — marching — 
King  George's  men  came  marching,  up  to  the  old  inn-door. 

They  said  no  word  to  the  landlord,  they  drank  his  ale  instead, 
But  they  gagged  his  daughter  and  bound  her  to  the  foot  of 
her  narrow  bed; 


The  Highwayman  299 

Two  of  them  knelt  at  her  casement,  with  muskets  at  their  side! 
There  was  death  at  every  window; 

And  hell  at  one  dark  window; 
For  Bess  could  see,  through  her  casement,  the  road  that  he 
would  ride. 

They  had  tied  her  up  to  attention,  with  many  a  sniggering  jest; 
They  had  bound  a  musket  beside  her,  with  the  barrel  beneath 

her  breast! 
"Now  keep  good  watch!"  and  they  kissed  her.    She  heard  the 

dead  man  say — 
Look  for  me  by  moonlight; 

Watch  for  me  by  moonlight; 
I'll  come  to  thee  by  moonlight,  though  hell  should  bar  the  way! 

She  twisted  her  hands  behind  her;  but  all  the  knots  held  good! 
She  w'rithed  her  hands  till  her  fingers  were  wet  with  sweat  or 

blood! 
They  stretched  and  strained  in  the  darkness,  and  the  hours 

crawled  by  like  years, 
Till,  now,  on  the  stroke  of  midnight. 

Cold,  on  the  stroke  of  midnight. 
The  tip  of  one  finger  touched  it!    The  trigger  at  last  was  hers! 

The  tip  of  one  finger  touched  it;  she  strove  no  more  for  the  rest! 
Up,  she  stood  up  at  attention,  with  the  barrel  beneath  her 

breast. 
She  would  not  risk  their  hearing:  she  would  not  strive  again; 
For  the  road  lay  bare  in  the  moonlight; 

Blank  and  bare  in  the  moonlight; 
And  the  blood  of  her  veins  in  the  moonlight  throbbed  to  her 

love's  refrain. 

Tlot-tlot;  tlot-tlot!    Had  they  heard  it?    The  horse-hoofs  ringing 

clear; 
Tlot-tlot,  tlot-tlot,  in  the  distance?     Were  they  deaf  that  they 

did  jQo<^  hear^ 


300  Alfred  Noyes 

Down  the  ribbon  of  moonlight,  over  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
The  highwayman  came  riding, 

Riding,  riding! 
The  red-coats  looked  to  their  priming!    She  stood  up,  straight 
and  still! 

Tlol-tlot,  in  the  frosty  silence!    Tlot-tlot,  in  the  echoing  night! 
Nearer  he  came  and  nearer!    Her  face  was  like  a  light! 
Her  eyes  grew  wide  for  a  moment ;  she  drew  one  last  deep  breath, 
Then  her  finger  moved  in  the  moonlight, 

Her  musket  shattered  the  moonlight. 
Shattered  her  breast  in  the  moonlight  and  warned  him — with 
her  death. 

He  turned;  he  spurred  to  the  Westward;  he  did  not  know  who 

stood 
Bowed,  with  her  head  o'er  the  musket,  drenched  with  her  own 

red  blood ! 
Not  till  the  dawn  he  heard  it,  and  slowly  blanched  to  hear 
How  Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 

The  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Had  watched  for  her  love  in  the  moonlight,  and  died  in  the 

darkness  there. 

Back,  he  spurred  like  a  madman,  shrieking  a  curse  to  the  sky, 

With  the  white  road  smoking  behind  him,  and  his  rapier  bran- 
dished high! 

Blood-red  were  his  spurs  in  the  golden  noon;  wine-red  was  his 
velvet  coat; 

When  they  shot  him  down  on  the  highway, 
Down  like  a  dog  on  the  highway. 

And  he  lay  in  his  blood  on  the  highway,  with  the  bunch  of  lace 
at  his  throat. 


And  still  of  a  winter'' s  night,  they  say,  when  the  wind  is  in  the  trees, 
When  the  moon  is  a  ghostly  galleon  tossed  upon  cloudy  seas, 


The  Admiral's  Ghost  301 

When  the  road  is  a  ribbon  of  moonlight  over  the  purple  moor, 

A  highwayman  comes  riding — 

Riding — ridhig — 
A  highwayman  comes  riding,  tip  to  the  old  inn-door. 

Over  the  cobbles  he  clatters  and  clangs  in  the  dark  inn-yard; 
And  he  taps  with  his  whip  on  the  shutters,  but  all  is  locked  and 

barred; 
He  whistles  a  time  to  the  window,  and  who  should  be  waiting  there 
But  the  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 
Plaiting  a  dark  red  love-knot  into  her  long  black  hair. 

THE  ADMIRAL'S   GHOST 

I  TELL  you  a  tale  to-night 

Which  a  seaman  told  to  me, 
With  eyes  that  gleamed  in  the  lanthorn  light 

And  a  voice  as  low  as  the  sea. 

You  could  almost  hear  the  stars 

Twinkling  up  in  the  sky, 
And  the  old  wind  woke  and  moaned  in  the  spars, 

And  the  same  old  waves  went  by, 

Singing  the  same  old  song 

As  ages  and  ages  ago, 
While  he  froze  my  blood  in  that  deep  sea  night 

With  the  things  that  he  seemed  to  know. 

A  bare  foot  pattered  on  deck; 

Ropes  creaked;  then — all  grew  still. 
And  he  pointed  his  finger  straight  in  my  face 

And  growled,  as  a  sea  dog  will. 

"Do  'ee  know  who  Nelson  was? 

That  pore  little  shriveled  form, 
With  the  patch  on  his  eye  and  the  pinned  up  sleeve 

And  a  soul  like  a  North  Sea  storm? 


302  Alfred  Noyes 

"Ask  of  the  Devonshire  men! 

They  know,  and  they'll  tell  you  true; 
He  wasn't  the  pore  little  chawed-up  chap 

That  Hardy  thought  he  knew. 

"He  wasn't  the  man  you  think! 

His  patch  was  a  dern  disguise! 
For  he  knew  that  they'd  find  him  out,  d'you  see. 

If  they  looked  him  in  both  his  eyes. 

"He  was  twice  as  big  as  he  seemed; 

But  his  clothes  were  cunningly  made. 
He'd  both  of  his  hairy  arms  all  right! 

The  sleeve  was  a  trick  of  the  trade. 

"You've  heard  of  sperrits,  no  doubt; 

Well,  there's  more  in  the  matter  than  that! 
But  he  wasn't  the  patch  and  he  wasn't  the  sleeve. 

And  he  wasn't  the  laced  cocked-hat. 

"Nelson  was  just — a  Ghost! 

You  may  laugh!    But  the  Devonshire  men 
They  knew  that  he'd  come  when  England  called, 

And  they  know  that  he'll  come  again. 

"I'll  tell  you  the  way  it  was 

(For  none  of  the  landsmen  know). 

And  to  tell  it  you  right,  you  must  go  a-starn 
Two  hundred  years  or  so. 


"The  waves  were  lapping  and  slapping 
The  same  as  they  are  to-day; 

And  Drake  lay  dying  aboard  his  ship 
In  Nombre  Dios  Bay. 


The  Admiral's  Ghost  303 

"The  scent  of  the  foreign  flowers 

Came  floating  all  around; 
'But  I'd  give  my  soul  for  the  smell  o'  the  pitch/ 

Says  he,  'in  Plymouth  Sound.' 

"'What  shall  I  do,'  he  says, 

'  When  the  guns  begin  to  roar. 
An'  England  wants  me,  and  me  not  there 

To  shatter  'er  foes  once  more?' 


"(You've  heard  what  he  said,  maybe 
But  I'll  mark  you  the  p'ints  again; 

For  I  want  you  to  box  your  compass  right 
And  get  my  story  plain.) 

"'You  must  take  my  drum,'  he  says, 

'To  the  old  sea-wall  at  home; 
And  if  ever  you  strike  that  drum,'  he  says, 

'Why,  strike  me  blind,  I'll  come! 

"'If  England  needs  me,  dead 

Or  living,  I'll  rise  that  day! 
I'll  rise  from  the  darkness  under  the  sea 

Ten  thousand  miles  away.' 

"That's  what  he  said;  and  he  died; 

An'  his  pirates,  listenin'  roun', 
With  their  crimson  doublets  and  jewelled  swordi 

That  flashed  as  the  sun  went  down. 

"They  sewed  him  up  in  his  shroud 

With  a  round-shot  top  and  toe. 
To  sink  him  under  the  salt  sharp  sea 

Where  all  good  seamen  go. 


304  Alfred  Noyes 

"  They  lowered  him  down  in  the  deep, 

And  there  in  the  sunset  Hght 
They  boomed  a  broadside  over  his  grave, 

As  meanin'  to  say  'Good-night.' 

"They  sailed  away  in  the  dark 
To  the  dear  little  isle  they  knew; 

And  they  hung  his  drum  by  the  old  sea-wall, 
The  same  as  he  told  them  to. 


"Two  hundred  years  went  by, 

And  the  guns  began  to  roar, 
And  England  was  fighting  hard  for  her  life, 

As  ever  she  fought  of  yore. 

"'It's  only  my  dead  that  count,' 

She  said,  as  she  says  to-day; 
*It  isn't  the  ships  and  it  isn't  the  guns 

'Ull  sweep  Trafalgar's  Bay.' 

"D'  you  guess  who  Nelson  was? 

You  may  laugh,  but  it's  true  as  true! 
There  was  more  in  that  pore  little  chawed-up  chap 

Than  ever  his  best  friend  knew. 

"The  foe  was  creepin'  close. 

In  the  dark,  to  our  white-cliff ed  isle; 

They  were  ready  to  leap  at  England's  throat, 
When — 0,  you  may  smile,  you  may  smile; 

"But — ask  of  the  Devonshire  men; 

For  they  heard  in  the  dead  of  night 
The  roll  of  a  drum  and  they  saw  him  pass 

On  a  ship  all  shining  white. 


The  Admiral's  Ghost  305 

"He  stretched  out  his  dead  cold  face, 

And  he  sailed  in  the  grand  old  way! 
The  fishes  had  taken  an  eye  and  an  arm, 

But  he  swept  Trafalgar's  Bay. 

"Nelson — was  Francis  Drake! 

O,  what  matters  the  uniform, 
Or  the  patch  on  your  eye  or  your  pinned-up  sleeve, 

If  your  soul's  like  a  North  Sea  storm?" 


REFERENCES 

TECHNICAL  AND   HISTORICAL 

TYPES   OF   POETRY 

Epic,  the  poetry  of  great  events  concerned  with  the  fortunes 
of  some  central  figure  related  in  a  majestic  style  (Homer's 
Odyssey) . 

Dramatic,  the  conversation  or  monologues  in  verse,  which 
reveal  the  characters,  motives,  and  acts  of  the  persons  of  the 
/drama  {Macbeth). 

I  /^Didactic  teaches  the  reader,  either  directly,  as  a  lecture,  or 
by  suggestion  through  the  use  of  a  story  with  a  moral  {How 

■}ih  the  Little  Busy  Bee). 

Ifarrative  tells  a  story  {The  Lady  of  the  Lake). 
Jallad,  a  form  of  narrative  poetry  which  had  its  origin  in  the 
common  people,  and  deals  either  with  their  own  life  or  with 
hej-oic  deeds  they  have  merely  heard  of  {Robin  Hood). 
'^Ode,  a  high,  that  is,  a  ceremonial  or  hymn-like  type  of 
poetry,  giving  beauty  and  fulness  to  a  definite  theme  or  sub- 
ject, (77/e  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn). 

\l^/}Jftic,  so  called  from  the  lyre  with  which  it  was  anciently 
supposed  to  be  accompanied,  hence,  a  song-like  poem,  uttering 
a  single  thought  or  emotion,  from  the  viewpoint  of  the  first 
person.  The  chief  essential  of  its  form  is  melody  {Sweet  Day,  so 
cool,  so  calm,  so  bright) . 

wy Elegy,  a  sad  or  reflective  lyric,  usually  with  a  narrative 
■element  {The  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard). 

Sonnet,  a  lyric  of  fourteen  verses  (lines)  in  which  the  thought 
or  emotion  is  regarded  in  the  first  part  as  developing,  in  the 
second  part  as  being  applied.  Sometimes  the  development 
occupies  twelve  verses  and  the  application  two  {When  to  the 
sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought);  and  sometimes  the  develop- 


3o8     References,  Technical  and  Historical 

ment  occupies  eight  and   the  application  six   {Much  have  I 
traveWd  in  the  realms  of  gold). 

y  Epigram,  as  Professor  Gummere  points  out,  is  a  poem  "written 
on  something, — say  with  a  diamond  on  a  window  pane."  It 
bears  the  same  relation  to  an  ordinary  form  of  expression  that 
a  diamond  bears  to  a  lump  of  coal — it  is  compressed,  hard, 
brilliant,  costly,  and  likely  to  cut  or  scratch  {Yoii  beat  your  pate 
and  fancy  wit  will  come). 

Epitaph,  on  a  tomb,  originally;  then,  any  inscription  con- 
veying remembrance  of  the  dead. 

Pastoral,  originally  the  artistic  imitation  of  the  songs  shep- 
herds were  supposed  to  sing  when  tending  their  ilocks  {Come 
live  with  me  and  be  my  love) ;  then  broadened  to  include  almost 
any  poetic  rural  theme  {The  Deserted  Village). 

Vers  de  Societe.  There  must  be  some  occasion,  slight  or 
serious,  treated  with  wit,  cleverness,  and  lightness  {On  a  Girdle). 

Vers  Libre,  the  most  modem  type  of  verse,  in  which  the  chief 
regard  is  paid  to  the  visualizing  of  sensuous  details,  and  in 
which  there  is  the  most  perfect  freedom  of  versification.  There 
are  no  examples  of  this  ultra-romantic  school  of  poetry  in  this 
little  volume. 

PROSODY    (SCIENCE   OF  VERSIFICATION) 

The  length  of  a  line  of  prose  is  limited  only  by  the  width  of 
the  page.  But  that  of  a  line  of  poetry  is  self-limited.  It  is 
called  a  verse,  from  the  Latin  verso,  because  the  eye  in  reading 
keeps  turning  back.  Verse  is  also  used  as  a  general  equivalent 
for  the  word  poetry  {British  Verse),  and  as  a  more  modest  word 
for  poetry,  as  in  album,  verses. 

V  Stanza,  a  group  of  related  verses,  usually  rhymed. 
*''Rhyme,  in  its  ordinary  sense,  the  repetition  of  similar,  not 
identical,  syllables.  These  similar  syllables  ordinarily  come  at 
the  end  of  the  verses  (sing,  ring) .  When  the  syllable  in  the  midst 
of  the  verse  is  similar  to  one  at  the  end,  the  rhyme  is  called  mid- 
line rhyme  (About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout);  when  two  syllables 
rhyme  with  two  others,  the  rhyme  is  called  double  (singing — 
ringing).     UnrhjTned  verse  is  called  blank.     (See  p.  310,  foot). 


References,  Technical  and  Historical     309 

^Uiythm,  the  flow  of  sound;  and,  as  sounds  tend  to  flow  in 
waves,  some  louder  than  others,  rhythm  has  come  to  mean 
recurrence  of  accents,  either  regular  or  regularly  varied.  Exam- 
ples are:  the  ticking  of  a  watch;  the  beating  of  the  pulse;  the 
accent  of  speech;  a  verse  (Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone,  alone  on  a 
wid^f^vide  sea). 

//Metre.  JSleasure  of  rhythm.  Count  the  accents  in  the  example 
just  above,  and  you  will  find  there  are  seven.  Metrically  arranged, 
as  in  the  A  ncicnt  Mariner  from  which  the  verses  are  quoted, 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone. 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea, 

you  will  notice  that  four  of  the  seven  are  in  the  first  verse,, 
three  in  the  second.  Such  metre  as  this  is  called  Ballad  Metre. 
Metres  are  named  from  the  number  of  accents  in  the  verse, 
which  may  vary  from  one  to  eight.  Metres  also  may  move 
swiftly  or  slowly;  and  curiously  enough  the  effect  of  swiftness 
arises  from  the  increase  in  the  ratio  of  syllables  to  accents. 
Study  these  examples.  How  many  syllables  in  each  verse? 
How  many  accents  in  each?    Which  moves  faster? 

I.  O  hark,  O  hear,  how  thin  and  clear. 

2^0  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West. 
I/Yeet  are  the  groups  of  syllables  which  make  up  a  verse. 
In  every  group  there  is  one  accented  syllable  and  one  or  more 
unaccented.    Study  this  nursery  rhyme: 

Simple  Simon  went  a  fishing 
For  to  catch  a  whale. 

There  are  four  feet  in  the  first  verse,  three  in  the  second.  Study 
this  from  Longfellow: 

This  is  the  forest  primeval,  the  murmuring  pines  and  the  hem- 
locks 

There  are  six  feet  in  this  verse.    Study  this  from  Milton: 

Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go. 
On  the  light,  fantastic  toe. 

There  are  four  feet  in  each  verse. 


3IO     References,  Technical  and  Historical 

The  character  of  the  individual  foot  is  best  learned  from 
Coleridge,  who  wrote  a  poem  for  his  own  boy  on  this  subject. 
You  will  find  it  on  page  141. 

Scanning  consists  in  marking  the  feet  of  a  verse  of  poetry, 
first  in  the  mind  by  the  sound,  and  then  on  paper.  It  is  usual 
to  mark  the  feet,  as  feet,  by  vertical  lines;  but  it  is  also  of 
importance  to  discern  which  is  the  accented  syllable  in  each 
foot  and  mark  that.  There  is  an  oral  scansion,  which  consists 
of  reading  the  verse  with  an  artificial  stress  on  the  accented 
syllables.  Remember  that  the  first  step  in  scanning  is  a  natural 
reading  of  the  verse,  with  an  intelligent  regard  for  its  meaning. 
/  /  t  t 

It  is  I  an  An  [  cient  Mar  |  iner,| 
t  It 

And  he  stop  |  peth  one  |  of  three. | 

In  scanning  this  passage  it  was  first  noted  that  Coleridge  in- 
tended to  name  a  person  as  if  seen  on  the  street  holding  up  one 
of  three  other  persons  whom  he  met.  This  idea  requires  the 
first  accent  to  fall  on  it  rather  than  is.  The  stresses  on  An  and 
Mar  are  obvious,  but  the  one  on  cr  is  not  a  natural  stress  as  the 
word  is  commonly  pronounced.  It  is  a  stress  only  in  com- 
parison with  the  stress  on  the  preceding  syllable  i.  (To  make 
this  clear,  read  the  verse  aloud,  and  try  putting  the  stress  on  z.) 
The  first  accent  we  naturally  come  upon  in  the  second  verse  is  on 
stop,  which  requires  us  to  pass  over  two  syllables  without  stress, 
instead  of  one  as  in  the  last  three  feet  of  the  verse  above. 
(Observe  the  effect  on  the  sense  of  the  verse,  of  putting  the 
stress  on  any  other  syllables  than  the  ones  marked.)  Thiscomes 
about  through  the  principle  that  the  poet  as  well  as  we,  his 
readers,  knew  what  was  the  common  understanding  of  words 
and  phrases,  and  constructed  his  verse  accordingly.  This 
apparently  unnecessary  remark  is  occasioned  by  the  feeling  a 
good  many  boys  have  that  there  is  something  arbitrary  about 
scanning.    Other  examples  follow: 

/  /  til 

So  all  I  day  long  |  the  noise  |  of  bat  |  tie  roU'd  | 

This  is  a  clear  and  regular  example  of  blank,  heroic  verse, 


References,  Technical  and  Historical     311 

which  has  ten  syllables,  five  accents,  each  accent  falling  on  the 
second  syllable  of  the  foot,  as  a  rule.  The  following  verse  scans 
the  same,  except  for  what  is  called  a  shift  of  accent  in  the  opening 
foot — a  delightful  variety  in  a  long  poem,  and  also  except  for 
the  extra  syllable  at  the  end,  which  is  known  as  a  feminine  end- 
ing, 

t  r  I  t  r 

Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon  his  shoulder. 

Below  is  an  example  made  up  wholly  of  feet  in  which  the 
accent  falls  on  the  first  of  each  two  syllables,  and  in  which  also 
there  is  an  irregularity  frequently  found  in  verse — the  omission 
of  the  final  syllable: 

What  hath  night  to  do  with  sleep? 

Pause  may  take  the  place  of  an  unaccented  syllable  as  at  the 
end  of  this  verse.  It  may  appear  in  other  places  than  at  the 
end  of  the  verse,  especially  in  dramatic  poetry  when  the  effect 
of  sudden  change  is  desired.  There  is  also  in  all  long  verses,  a 
kind  of  pause  which  docs  not  take  the  place  of  any  syllable,  but 
is  used  to  control  the  phrasing  or  inflecting  of  the  verse.  It  is 
called  the  Cccsura.  In  the  following  examples  the  caesuras 
occur  at  different  points  in  the  verse: 

r  t  t  I  t  t 

When  I  I  dipt  in  |  to  the  fut  |  ure  ||  far  |  as  hu  |  man  eye  |  could 


Immor  |  tal  vig  |  or  ||  though  |  oppressed  |  and  fallen  ( 

t  t  t  I  t 

Shortly  |  shall  all  |  my  lab  |  ors  end,||  and  |  thou  | 

/  t  r  t  t  I 

My  duke  |  dom  1 1  since  |  you've  giv  |  en  me  |  again  | 

Quatrain,  a  stanza  of  four  verses  in  which  the  fourth  rhymes 
with  the  second,  and  the  third  may  rhyme  with  the  first. 
Sometimes,  but  rarely,  the  fourth  rhymes  not  with  the  second 
but  with  the  first. 

Couplet,  two  verses  rhymed. 
/^Heroic  Couplet,  a  pair  of  5-beat,  lo-syllable  verses  rhymed. 


312     References,  Technical  and  Historical 

The  most  familiar  form  is  that  estabh'shed  in  the  17th  century, 
on  Chaucer's  model,  and  brought  to  perfection  in  the  i8th 
century,  by  Pope.  Its  characteristics  are  its  completeness,  its 
ease,  and  its  patness  or  point. 

Judges  and  senates  have  been  bought  for  gold, 
Esteem  and  love  were  never  to  be  sold. 

Special  Forms  of  verse,  particularly  if  produced  in  English 
by  foreign  influence,  should  be  studied  in  such  treatises  as 
Professor  Gummere's  Handbook  of  Poetics.  (Ginn  and  Com- 
pany.) But  many  may  be  observed  in  this  volume,  and  to 
some  attention  has  been  called  in  the  notes. 

Poet  Laureate,  a  poet  of  unquestioned  character  and  loyalty, 
who  is  given  a  small  pension,  and  the  honor  of  being  the 
official  poet  of  the  kingdom.  Laureate  means  crowned  with 
laurel,  which  was  the  leaf  with  which  poets  were  crowned  in 
ancient  Greece,  at  the  festivals  in  honor  of  Apollo,  the  god  of 
poetry.  It  has  sometimes  happened  that  the  laurel  has  not 
crowned  the  most  gifted  poet  of  England.  On  the  other  hand, 
Tennyson,  by  his  work  in  general  and  his  occasional  poems, 
(such  as  his  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington),  reflected 
glory  on  the  office. 

POETICAL  PERIODS   OR   MOVEMENTS 

There  have  been  great  single  poets  in  times  not  favorable  to 
their  growth,  but  as  a  rule  greatness  or  even  success  has  been 
in  part  conditioned  by  the  age.  The  age  does  not  account  for 
Chaucer,  except  in  a  very  slight  degree.  It  does  go  far  towards 
explaining  Shakspere,  Pope,  or  Tennyson. 

The  Renaissance  or  New  Learning  had  been  a  gradual  devel- 
opment in  England  during  the  XV  century.  It  consisted  essen- 
tially in  the  influence  upon  English  thought  of  the  ideals  and 
impulses  of  Italy,  as  hers  had  grown  out  of  the  new-born  enthu- 
siasm for  classical  literature  and  art  which  had  possessed  her 
scholars  for  two  centuries.  The  growth  of  the  art  and  fashion 
of  painting  at  this  time  in  England  was  of  course  a  great  help, 


References,  Technical  and  Historical     313 

and  certain  great  continental  scholars  came  into  England  to 
give  University  men  a  good  chance  to  study  Greek  and  Latin 
at  home.  The  enlarging  of  the  bounds  of  imaginative  study,  the 
expansion  of  foreign  relations  of  all  kinds  due  to  larger  commerce 
and  explorations,  the  XVT  century  religious  excitement  and 
freedom,  the  new-found  national  consciousness  of  Britain,  all 
worked  together  to  produce  an  atmosphere  favorable  to  original 
literary  endeavor,  and  one  which  offered  both  new  and  interest- 
ing material  to  write  about,  and  a  new  and  larger  pubhc  to  write 
for.  On  this  high  and  rising  tide  of  life  rode  the  poets  Spenser, 
Marlowe,  and  Shakspere,  with  all  the  other  Elizabethans.  It 
was  an  age  in  which  genius  was  fostered.  Great  things  were 
done  with  no  consciousness  that  they  were  either  great  or 
difficult. 

The  Puritan  Age  followed  that  of  Elizabeth.  It  was  an  age 
of  reaction  from  worldly  standards.  The  conscience  of  the 
nation  had  awakened  with  its  imagination,  and  a  new  and 
critical  form  of  piety  developed.  Poets  who  were  far  from 
being  Puritans  themselves  felt  the  influence  of  this  atmosphere 
of  morality,  and  were  moved  either  to  sympathy  with  it  oi 
hostility  to  it.  The  Cavalier  Poets,  the  followers  of  King 
Charles,  quite  frankly  took  a  non-Puritanic  view,  and  made 
what  capital  they  could  out  of  ridiculing  the  peculiar  advocates 
of  righteousness.  Their  doctrine  was  in  some  cases  the  one 
deplored  in  Scripture,  "Let  us  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  for  to- 
morrow we  die."  Such  a  doctrine  brought  out  the  delightful 
lyrics  of  Lovelace,  while  Milton's  mighty  trumpet  voiced  the 
serious  spirit  of  the  age. 

The  Restoration  is  the  name  given  to  the  period  of  revolt 
from  the  restraint  of  the  Puritans,  when  at  the  close  of  the 
Commonwealth  in  1660  the  Stuarts  were  restored  to  power.  It 
was  a  dissolute  and  decadent  age,  and  was  happily  soon  past. 
Dryden  lived  through  it. 

The  Classical  Age  was  the  period,  of  uncertain  duration,  which 
covered  most  of  the  poetical  activities  of  England  from  1688  to 
1760 — the  reigns  of  William  and  Mary,  Anne,  and  the  first  two 
Georges.     The  typical  work  of  this  period  was  unoriginal  in 


314     References,  Technical  and  Historical 

thought,  and  rule-ridden  in  form.  Of  course  there  were 
writers  of  unusual  brilliancy  and  talent  who  rose  above  the 
age,  but  not  a  single  poet  who  could  not  be  spared  from  our 
daily  thought  and  reading  without  serious  unhappiness.  The 
three  great  names  are  Dryden,  Pope,  and  Swift.  The  influences 
which  made  the  age  peculiar  were,  first,  political  and  religious 
timidity  and  weariness;  second,  unblushing  self-interest;  third, 
the  habit  of  imitation, — one  man  imitated  another,  and  all 
imitated  Horace,  or  Juvenal,  or  some  other  Latin  poet;  fourth, 
the  fashions,  and  especially  the  fashion  of  following  the  French 
ideas  of  the  time  in  china,  in  furniture,  in  manners,  in  vices  and 
virtues,  and  particularly  in  the  rules  for  writing  poetry.  The 
age  was  of  value  to  those  which  have  succeeded  it  chiefly 
through  the  development  of  the  art  of  saying  things  with 
extreme  clearness.  But  as  this  is  a  merit  of  prose  rather  than  of 
verse,  we  cannot  consider  this  description  the  highest  praise. 

The  Age  of  Romanticism  marked  the  swing  of  the  pendulum 
of  freedom  of  thought  and  style  away  from  its  Classical  re- 
straints. Burns,  Cowper,  Gray,  then  Wordsworth  and  Cole- 
ridge, then  Byron,  Shelley,  Keats,  and  Scott — these  names 
suggest  the  way  the  world  won  back  its  habit  of  thinking 
sincerely  and  writing  in  harmony  with  the  thought  and  not 
according  to  rule  or  fashion.  As  you  read  on  and  on,  in  this 
little  book,  you  will  find  yourself  passing  through  one  atmos- 
phere after  another,  and  if  you  are  keen  to  notice,  you  will  fed 
the  ages  as  you  feel  changes  in  the  country  through  which  you 
bowl  along  in  an  open  car. 

One  caution  may  be  necessary.  You  must  not  suppose  that  a 
Romanticist  is  the  same  as  a  romancer.  Romanticism  is  the 
laying  of  the  chief  emphasis  in  poetry  on  the  substance  rather 
than  on  the  form,  and  especially  it  is  contrary  to  self-conscious 
and  traditional  form.  Classicism  is  conventionality;  Roman- 
ticism, liberty. 


References,  Technical  and  Historical     315 

DATES 

The  following  dates  in  English  history  are  of  occasional 
value  to  one  who  is  studying  the  poetry  age  by  age: 

XIV  Century:  Edward  III  and  the  Black  Prince.  War  with 
France. 

XV  Century:  Introduction  of  printing.  Study  of  Greek  in  the 
Universities.  Discovery  and  Exploration.  Wars  of  the  Roses 
end. 

Henry  VIII:  (1509)  New  Learning  encouraged.  Quarrel  with 
Roman  church  brought  England  into  the  current  of  the  Rcjor- 
matlon. 

Edward  VI:  Great  schools  established  on  ruins  of  monasteries. 

Elizabeth:  Religious  toleration,  large  undertakings,  height  of 
Renaissance,  new  pride  in  national  greatness. 

James  I:  (1603)  Continuance  of  most  lines  of  Elizabethan  ac- 
tivity.   Theiv«zg/awe5  Version  of  the  Bible.    Rise  of  Puritans. 

Charles  I:  (1625)  People  rose,  and  in  1649  established  common- 
wcalth,  which  for  eleven  years  marked  England  as  a  Puritan 
Democracy.  Oliver  Cromwell  was  its  chief,  with  title  of 
Protector;  Milton  its  Latin  or  Foreign  Secretary,  who  had  the 
task  of  justifying  the  Protectorate  to  the  monarchies  of  Europe. 

Charles  II:  (1660)  The  Restoration  of  the  Stuarts,  and,  with 
them,  of  the  Church  of  England. 

William  of  Orange  and  Mary  Stuart:  (168S)  an  elected  king, 
and  the  Whig  party  in  the  ascendant. 

Anne:  (1702)  The  last  of  the  Stuarts.  Tatler  and  Spectator 
published.    Foreign  wars. 

George  I:  (17 14)  First  of  the  House  of  Hanover.  German 
Prince,  with  no  English  sympathy  or  language. 

George  II:  (1727)  Miscalled  Augustus,  from  his  supposed  like- 
ness to  Augustus  Caesar  in  patronizing  men  of  letters. 

George  III:  (1760)  who  looked  on  while  the  world  threw  ofT 
many  of  the  restraints  which  tradition  and  government  had 
long  maintained.  The  revolutions  in  America  and  France  were 
political,  but  it  was  not  more  in  politics  than  in  literature  an 
age  of  change  and  newness. 


3i6     References,  Technical  and  Historical 

Lake  Poets:  This  is  a  name  given  to  Wordsworth  and  his  two 
friends,  Coleridge  and  Southey,  because  they  lived  a  longer  or 
shorter  time  in  the  English  Lake  Country— Westmoreland. 
Wordsworth  was  in  a  very  real  sense  a  lake-poet. 

Victoria:  (1837)  In  its  way  this  reign  was  as  rich  as  that  of 
Elizabeth — but  one  was  rich  in  energy,  initiative,  and  promise; 
the  other  in  the  results  of  these  precious  beginnings  of  greatness. 
With  all  pride  in  the  work  of  Darwin  we  ought  to  remember  that 
he  was  in  a  sense  made  possible  by  Bacon.  So  in  hterature, 
the  long  list  of  notable  men  descended  from  that  list  of  far- 
distant  pioneers  called  the  Elizabethans.  To  what  men  and 
women,  and  of  what  kind  of  literary  powers,  will  the  genius  of 
the  Victorian  Age  become  a  heritage? 

George  V:  (19 10)  This  is  a  time  of  many  good  poets,  and  much 
sincere  and  lofty  pursuit  of  truth.  We  are  too  close  to  judge  it 
fairly,  but  if  there  is  one  quality  that  deserves  to  be  called 
dominant,  it  is,  perhaps,  the  quality  of  realism — the  portrayal 
of  life  with  its  facts  and  motives  unadorned;  splendor  and 
magnitude  are  apparently  not  yet  reached  in  current  poetry. 
Can  it  be  that  the  world  war — the  blackest  tragedy  of  all  time — 
will  generate  these  attributes  of  a  majestic  literature?  Can  it  be 
that  British  thought  is  even  now  stumbling  up  the  great  world's 
altar-stairs  that  slope  through  darkness  up  to  God? 


INTRODUCTIONS  AND  NOTES 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

The  tomb  of  Thomas  a  Becket,  the  martyred  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury, had  been  for  many  years  a  holy  shrine  to  pilgrims  from  all 
parts  of  England.  The  Canterbury  Talcs  are  supposed  to  be  told  by 
Chaucer  and  his  companions  on  their  pilgrimage  to  Becket's  tomb. 
In  the  prologue,  the  characters  are  introduced,  and  the  place  and  man- 
ner of  their  meeting  at  the  Tabard,  in  South  London,  are  described. 

There  were  thirty  in  the  company  in  all,  representing  almost  as 
many  types  and  vocations;  and  each  member  was  supposed,  in 
Chaucer's  original  plan,  to  tell  two  stories  going  to  Canterbury,  and 
two  more  coming  back.  This  scheme  was  by  no  means  completely 
executed,  but  twenty-four  Tales  have  come  down  to  us,  each  fittinglj- 
told  by  a  pilgrim-character,  and  each  evidence  of  the  genius  of  the 
Father  of  English  Poetry. 

The  life  of  Chaucer  had  prepared  him  in  an  extraordinary  way  to 
write  of  various  classes  of  English  society.  He  is  thought  of  as  a 
courtier,  diplomat,  or  statesman.  But  he  had  begun  life  as  pot-boy 
in  his  father's  wine-shop;  then  had  served  successively  as  page  in  the 
household  of  a  prince,  soldier  in  the  army  of  Edward  III,  and  valet 
to  the  king.  He  had  been  the  passionate  lover  of  a  lady  beyond  his 
reach,  a  student  of  literature  and  of  science,  a  custom-house  ofEcer 
in  London,  a  famous  traveler,  and  a  practical  man  of  affairs.  It  is 
this  varied  experience,  as  well  as  his  gift  for  seeing  and  writing  vividly, 
that  made  his  portra_vals  and  stories  immortal. 

Chaucer's  personal  gifts  were  chiefly  a  loyal  heart,  a  charming  man- 
ner, a  kindly  wit,  broad  sympathies,  and  common  sense.  He  was  the 
first  poet  to  be  buried  in  the  Poets'  Comer  of  Westminster  Abbey. 

soote,  sweet  through    which    the    sun 

swich,  such  passes  in  April 

vertue,  life  corages,  hearts 

holt,  wood  halwes,  holy  places,  shrines 

Ram,  that  "sign  of  the  zodiac"  kouth,  famous 

317 


3i8 


Introductions  and  Notes 


devyse, show 

f erre,  further 

reysed,  forayed 

arive,  a  gathering  of  troops  at 

the  shore  {ad  ripam)  for  an 

expedition 
ilke,  same 
prys,  praise 
vileinye,  vulgarity 
wight,  person 
fustyan,  homespun 
gepoun,  short,  tight  coat 
bysmotered,  smudged 
habergeoun,  coat  of  mail 
bacheler,  a  squire  who  aspires 

to  become  a  knight 
crulle,  curly 
evene         lengthe,       average 

height 
delyver,  nimble 
chivachye,  cavalry  service 
fioytynge,  playing  his  flute 
make  and  endite,  compose  and 

write 
nightertale,  night  time 
cleped,  called 
fetysly,  accurately 
leste,  pleasure 
raughte,  reached 
sikerly,  certainly 
disport,  fun 
peyned,  took  pains 
countrefete    cheere,    imitate 

the  manners 
estatlich,  stately 
wastel  breed,  bread  made  of 

fine  wheat-flour 
yerde,  stick 


wympel,  veil,  covering  head 
and  neck 

y-pynched,  plaited 

tretys,  pretty 

f etys,  neat 

logik,  learning 

overeste  courtepy,  outer  gar- 
ment 

benefice,  living,  pastorate 

office,  civic  office 

levere,  more  eager 

fithele,  fiddle 

sawtrie,  harp 

philosophre,  a  pun,  the  word 
meaning  either  "lover  of 
learning"  or  "alchemist" 

herte,  get 

sentence,  meaning 

sowning,  tending  to 

sythes,  times 

lafte  nat,  ceased  not 

lewed,  ignorant 

keep,  care  (for  his  worldly  in- 
terests) 

leet,  left 

chaunterie  for  soules,  a  chance 
to  sing  masses  in  the 
cathedral 

withholde,  maintained,  living 
free  in  a  monastery 

mercenarie,  hireling 

despitous,  cruel 

daungerous  ne  digne,  difficult 
nor  disdainful 

snybben,  rebuke 

nones,  occasion 

spiced,  high-flavored  with 
worldly  knowledge 


Introductions  and  Notes  319 


BALLADS 

Between  the  work  of  genial  Chaucer  and  the  height  of  the  Renais- 
sance in  the  middle  of  the  Sixteenth  Century,  there  was  a  period  of 
English  life  comparatively  unblest  by  written  poetry.  But  the  people 
were  singing,  taught  by  their  gifted  though  unlettered  bards,  and  their 
songs  were  here  and  there,  as  time  went  on,  committed  to  paper. 
They  were  called  ballads,  and  celebrate  every  sort  of  public  or  pri- 
vate event,  telling  the  news  or  retelling  famous  stories.  They  move 
rapidly  in  couplets  of  se\-en  beats  (usually  printed  as  verses  of  four 
and  three)  and  are  marked  by  swift  action,  simple  thought,  and  a 
way  of  their  own  of  painting  pictures  and  relating  events.  In  their 
original  medi£e\'al  use  they  were  not  recited,  but  sung  to  some  accom- 
paniment, perhaps  of  a  harp;  and  to  many  of  them  even  now  tradi- 
tional melodies  are  attached. 

Sir  Patrick  Spens.  Eric,  the  King  of  Norway,  and  his  Scottish 
bride,  died  in  1278,  or  thereabout,  leaving  a  little  daughter.  King 
Edward  I  of  England,  some  years  later,  concluded  that  it  would  be 
"good  politics"  to  marry  his  son  to  this  "Maiden  of  Norway,"  as  she 
was  quaintly  called.  So,  to  use  the  words  of  the  chronicle,  "Am- 
bassadors were  despatched  to  bring  home  the  royal  infant,  who,  to  the 
£,Teat  grief  of  the  whole  kingdom,  died  on  the  voyage."  Was  this 
the  "King's  daughter  of  Norroway,"  and  were  the  ambassadors  the 
"Scots  lairds"  in  "cork-heeled  shoon"?  This  is  a  good  example  of 
the  way  in  which  actual  events  found  their  way  into  the  popular 
ballads,  after  a  century  or  two  had  enveloped  the  facts  in  a  romantic 
mist. 

Dunfermline,  ancient  residence  of  the  Scottish  kings,  and  the  birth- 
place of  Andrew  Carnegie. 
skeely,  skilful. 
b^aid,  broad. 

King's  daughter,  very  likely  an  allusion  to  the  daughter  of  Eric  of 
Norway  who  as  bride  of  Prince  Henry  died  on  her  voyage  to  Scot- 
land. 

lap,  leaped,  sprang  lode,  load  of  blows 

wap,  bind  jow,  toll 

laith,  loath  Islington,  ]:)ronounce  Izlington 

Chevy  Chase,  Cheviot  Hunting  fond,  foolish,  doting 

wode,  furious 


'320  Introductions  and  Notes 


SIR  EDWARD  DYER 

My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  is  sets  forth  a  quaint  but  shrewd 
analysis  of  the  doctrine  of  conlcntment.  Note  how  this  doctrine  differs 
from  that  of  satisfaction.  One  seeks  enough,  the  other  restrains  de- 
sire. In  the  apprehension  of  this  difference  lies  the  secret  of  happiness, 
as  truly  now  as  it  did  three  centuries  ago  when  Sir  Edward  expounded 
it.  The  theory  of  life  contained  in  this  poem  was  put  to  the  extreme 
test  of  actual  experiment  by  a  New  England  scholar  in  the  middle  of 
the  Nineteenth  Century,  Henry  David  Thoreau,  who  left  the  social 
life  of  Concord  for  the  simplicity  of  a  cabin  on  lonely  Walden  Pond. 
Such  an  application  of  the  theory  is  interesting,  but  not  necessary. 
The  truest  test  would  take  place  in  the  midst  of  ordinary  conditions. 
We  often  hear  of  a  man  who  eagerly  seeks  more  money,  though  he  is 
already  so  rich  that  his  wealth  is  a  burden  to  him.  Has  he  Sir  Ed- 
ward's spirit? 

grows  by  kind,  is  produced  by  nature. 
want,  lack,  {not  desire). 
thrall,  slave. 

surfeits,  sickens  with  excess. 
pine,  waste  away  with  longing. 
ease,  peace. 

EDMUND  SPENSER 

The  name  Amorctti,  which  Spenser  gave  his  love  Sonnets,  was  bor- 
rowed from  Italy  along  with  the  Sonnet  itself  (Such  things  give  the 
words  "  ItaHan  influence"  and  "  Renaissance  "  a  more  defmite  meaning 
to  us.  They  show  England  in  the  act  of  learning  from  Italy).  These 
verses  were  written  to  honor  his  wife,  the  "Irish  country  lass,"  Eliz- 
abeth Boyle,  while  the  Faerie  Queene  was  written  to  honor  the  great 
Elizabeth  of  England.  The  stanza,  called  Spenserian,  in  which  this 
great  work  is  written,  is  worthy  of  special  examination.  It  has  how 
many  verses?  What  is  the  rhyme  order  in  the  first  stanza?  Is  it  the 
same  in  all?  How  many  beats  in  the  various  verses?  Was  it  a  small 
thing  to  write  so  many  such  stanzas?  Yet  Spenser,  filled  with  the 
boundless  energy  of  the  age,  did  not  blench  at  the  prospect  of  com- 
pleting his  gigantic  plan  for  twenty-four  books  in  the  same  style. 
What  did  discourage  him  is  shown  with  pathetic  clearness  in  the  little 
poem,  Hope  Deferred,  above.  Spenser  drew  his  famous  passage  on  the 
trees  from  Chaucer.    The  interesting  parallel  may  be  studied  by  re- 


Introductions  and  Notes  321 

ferring  to  Chaucer's  Parlcment  of  Foules  (Meeting  of  the  Birds)  lines 

176-182. 

juniper,  a  low,  spreading  evergreen  bush. 

eglantine,  sometimes  the  honeysuckle,  but  here  the  dogrose  or  large 
wild  brier  common  in  English  hedges. 

pill,  bitter  because  concentrated  essence  of  the  nut. 

moly,  a  mythical  white  flower,  with  a  black,  root. 

sour  enough,  a  mixed  flavor,  like  sorrel. 

suing,  petitioning — here,  for  royal  favors. 

Prince's,  Queen  Elizabeth's. 

Sayling  Pine,  used  for  masts  of  ships. 

weepeth  still,  balsam  from  its  boughs,  like  tears. 

forlorne  paramours,  lonely  lovers.  I  recall  hearing,  some  years  ago, 
that  great  Vorkshireman  Dr.  Calthrop,  sing  this  ancient  York- 
shire ditty: 

"All  'round  my  hat  I  wears  a  green  willow; 
All  'round  my  hat,  for  a  year  and  a  day. 
If  any  one  should  ask  you  the  reason  why  T  wears  it, 
Then  say  that  my  true  love  is  far,  far  away." 

Eugh,  3'ew,  of  which  the  English  made  their  bows. 

shaftes,  arrows. 

Sallow,  a  kind  of  willow  specially  good  for  making  into  charcoal. 

Mirrhe,  which  when  "bitterly  wounded"  exudes  an  aromatic  gum. 

Warlike  Beech,  used  for  clubs  and  shields. 

Platane,  the  plane-tree,  which  bears  round  balls. 

Holme,  or  holly,  the  best  wood  for  carving. 

weening,  hoping,  expecting. 

JOHN  LYLY 

Lyly  shared  in  the  English  Revi\al  of  classical  learning.  He  was 
a  wit  in  the  Queen's  court,  and  a  London  schoolmaster.  He  wrote 
both  brilliant  plays  and  two  strange  prose  books  about  Eiipliiics  (the 
Weil-Bred).  These  spread  abroad  a  fanciful  kind  of  language, 
called  Euphuism,  which  influenced  the  style  of  many  writers,  in- 
cluding Shakspere. 

Cupid  and  Campaspe.  App)€lles,  the  court-painter,  was  required 
to  paint  the  i)ortrait  of  Campaspe,  the  Theban  captive  of  Alexander 
the  Great.  The  artist  fell  deep  in  love  with  the  fair  slave,  sang  this 
song  in  her  praise,  was  overheard,  was  threatened  by  the  Emperor, 


322  Introductions  and  Notes 

gave  up  hope  even  of  life,  and  finally  was  raised  to  a  heaven  of  joy 

by  being  given  Campaspe  for  his  bride. 

his  mother's  doves,  etc.  Cupid  made  free  with  the  property  of  Venus, 

his  mother,  in  the  desperate  game  with  Campaspe,  in  addition 

to  losing  to  her  all  his  own  charms. 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

Sidney  was  the  "soldier  of  the  queen"  who  was  so  fortunate  as  to 
become  the  example  to  all  young  men  in  his  own  day  and  ever  since, 
of  true  manhood  and  gentleness.  You  remember  the  "cup  of  water" 
given  to  the  common  soldier  on  the  field  of  Zutphen? 

To  Sleep.    Compare  Sidney's  description  of  sleep  with  that  which 
Shakspere  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Macbeth,  Act  II,  Sc.  II.    "Stella" 
was  Sidney's  name  for  the  Lady  Penelope  Devereux,  to  whom  he  was 
betrothed.    The  Arcadia,  from  which  this  tuneful  sonnet  is  drawn,  is 
a  prose  romance,  very  elaborate  and  fanciful,  but  not  interesting  to 
most  readers  nowada3S. 
certain  knot,  one  that  will  not  let  peace  slip. 
baiting-place,  where  wit  stops  to  refresh  itself. 
proof,  armor. 

civil  wars,  because  within  himself 

image,  his  only  consolation  for  a  sleepless  night  will  be  the  memory 
of  his  lady-love. 

My  True  Love  Hath  My  Heart.  Theodor  Marzial's  setting  of 
this  madrigal  in  the  musical  form  called  the  Canon,  is  an  exquisite 
duet.  Only  the  first  eight  lines,  the  octet,  is  sung.  Do  you  see  the 
reason  for  this? 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

Michael  Drayton  was  a  very  patriotic  poet.  He  wrote  long  and 
stirring  accounts  of  English  heroes,  especially  in  war,  but  his  most 
important  work  was  a  sort  of  rhymed  geography  of  100,000  lines, 
called  Polyolbion,  which  describes  the  mountains,  fields,  forests, 
towns  and  rivers  of  Britain,  and  tells  stories  about  them  all.  It  is  not 
by  these  long  poems,  however,  that  Drayton  is  best  known,  but  by 
his  lyrics,  for  example,  the  sonnet,  Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss 
and  part.  This  is  particularly  admired  on  account  of  the  sudden  turn 
given  to  the  thought  in  the  closing  couplet. 
Passion,  the  same  person  as  Love  in  the  verse  above. 


Introductions  and  Notes  323 

The  spirited  account  of  the  battle  of  Agincourt,  between  Henry  V 
and  the  French,  affords  another  good  example.    The  victory  of  the 
English  Yeomen  is  presented  dramatically  in  the  fourth  act  of  Shak- 
spere's  Henry  V ;  and  Drayton's  lyrical  form  was  admired  by  Tennyson, 
as  may  be  discovered  in  his  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade.    So  it  appears 
that  both  the  theme  and  the  metre  of  this  particular  poem  of  Dray- 
ton's are  of  special  interest. 
Agincourt,  pronounce  so  as  to  rhyme  with /or/. 
bilbos,  swords,  from  the  town  in  Spain  where  they  were  made. 
maiden  knight,  because  fighting  his  first  battle. 

CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 

When  we  think  of  Marlowe,  we  see  a  life  of  the  greatest  promise 
cut  off  before  its  prime.  JMarlowe  was  a  natural  scholar.  He  had 
every  advantage  offered  by  the  stimulating  atmosphere  of  Cambridge 
University  at  the  height  of  the  English  Renaissance.  A  dramatic 
gift,  second  to  none,  found  expression  in  five  powerful  tragedies, 
written  in  that  blank  verse  Pentameter  which  has  since  been  the 
medium  of  all  the  highest  utterances  in  English  poetry;  but  his  life 
also  was  a  tragedy,  and  ended  violently  in  a  ta\ern  brawl. 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love.    The  imagery  employed 
to  ornament  this  appeal  is  not  only  artificial;  it  reflects  the  pastoral 
ornamentation  of  the  love  poetry  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  of  whom 
Marlowe  was  an  enthusiastic  disciple — another  evidence  of  the  Eng- 
lish re\ival  of  classical  learning. 
madrigals,  shepherd's  songs,  usually  of  love. 
kirtle,  skirt,  or  jacket  with  skirt  attached, 
swains,  rustic  youths. 

Taiiburlaine  to  Calyphas.  This  brief  passage  is  introduced  to 
give  an  idea  of  "  Marlowe's  mighty  line."  Tamburlaine,  the  powerful 
Eastern  conqueror,  had  three  sons.  Of  these  three  boys,  two  were 
outspoken  in  their  eagerness  to  join  their  father's  army.  But  Caly- 
phas, feeling  sorry  for  his  mother  who  would  thus  be  bereft  of  her 
children,  expressed  a  modest  desire  to  remain  at  home.  Thereupon 
the  warlike  king  liurst  forth  upon  him  in  this  scathing  rebuke. 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

From  the  discordant  life  of  Marlowe  it  is  a  relief  to  turn  to  the  poet 
whom  Milton  called  "Sweetest  Shakspere,  Fancy's  child."    The  cen- 


324  Introductions  and  Notes 

tral  fact  of  Shakspere's  life  is  his  possession  and  exercise  of  genius. 
The  most  important  secondary  fact  about  Shakspere  is  that  he  Hved 
in  that  age  of  England's  history  which  may  be  described  as  the  most 
restlessly  and  joyously  alive — the  Age  of  Elizabeth.  The  geniu«  of 
Shakspere  was  primarily  a  genius  for  appreciating  every  phase  of 
the  life  of  this  restless  and  joyous  age,  e\ery  thing,  every  person, 
every  event,  every  sight  or  sound.  With  this  gift  of  universal  interest 
and  insight  was  joined  the  most  facile  power  of  expression  ever  ac- 
corded to  the  pen  of  man.  Shakspere  was  a  country  lad,  and  even 
after  he  went  up  to  London  to  seek  his  fortune,  he  had  neither  time 
nor  opportunity  for  systematic  study.  His  university  was  the  world; 
his  teachers,  fellow-playwrights,  or  the  "groundlings"  who  roared 
from  the  "pit,"  or  the  gay  noblemen  who  frequented  the  boxes  and 
patronized  the  dramatists.  Out  of  all  this  came  the  greatest  of 
poets — the  Voice  through  whom,  for  three  hundred  years,  have 
vibrated  the  hopes,  fears,  loves,  ambitions,  griefs,  and  merriment  of 
mankind. 

Plve  Sonnets.  These  sonnets,  in  the  English,  not  the  true  Italian, 
form,  are  sometimes  called  qiiatorzaiiis.  They  consist  of  three  qua- 
trains and  a  couplet,  and  the  thought  is  usually  "  developed  "  through 
the  first  twelve  lines,  and  then  rather  epigrammatically  "applied" 
in  the  last  two.  The  five  sonnets  here  gi\en  are  drawn  from  Shak- 
spere's great  series  of  one  hundred  and  fift}'-four. 
bootless,  profitless,  vain. 
like  him,  may  be  taken  as  like  a  single  other  fortunate  man,  or  like 

one  in  one  res()ect,  and  another  in  another. 
contented  least  is  thoroughly  explained  by  D3'er  in  My  Mind  to  tne  a 

Ki)igdoni  is. 
alchemy,  wliich  changes  baser  metals  into  gold. 
anon,  soon. 

rack,  masses  of  clouds. 
forlorn,  lost,  suggests  the  German  vcrlorcn. 
my  sun,  the  friend  who  was  the  light  of  my  life. 
chronicle  of  wasted  time,  history. 
wights,  persons. 

for,  because,  used  twice  adds  reason  to  reason. 
outward  walls,  dress,  house,  equipage. 
aggravate,  add  weight  to,  increase. 

terms  divine,  ages  in  God's  presence,  cheaply  j)urchased  at  the  ex- 
pense of  Iioiirs  of  dross,  that  is,  worthless  pleasure. 
Death  once  dead,  see  Romans,  VI,  11. 


Introductions  and  Notes  325 

Ukder  the  Greenwood  Tree  and  Blow,  Blow,  Thou  Wixter 
Wind  are  sung  in  the  Forest  of  Arden  by  the  faithful  courtiers  of  the 
Banished  Duke.  The  classic  setting  of  these  two  songs  was  Dr.  Arnc's 
early  in  the  Eighteenth  Century.  It  was  a  Lover  and  his  Lass  (set 
to  music  about  the  same  time  by  Thomas  Morley)  is  another  As  You 
Like  It  song.  This  one  is  sung  towards  the  close  of  the  play,  and  has 
reference  to  the  clown  Touchstone  and  his  afJectionate  but  awkward 
sweetheart,  Audrey.  Of  course,  the  effect  of  these  and  all  other  "in- 
cidental "  songs  is  greatly  enhanced  by  the  background  of  the  play  it- 
self. Look  up  these  three  in  .1^  Vou  Like  It.  Hark,  Hark,  the  Lark, 
and  Silvia  ins{)ired  Schubert,  the  greatest  of  all  German  melodists,  to 
set  them  to  perfect  music. 
Warp,  wea\'c  into  ice. 
there  suck  I,  emphasizes  the  smallness  of  the  powerful  fairy,  Ariel, 

who  sings  this  song  to  his  master,  Prospero,  the  magician — Duke 

of  Milan. 
Full  fathom  five,  is  also  sung  by  Ariel, — but  to  Ferdinand,  who  is 

made  to  believe  his  father  drowned. 
chaliced,  having  cups  to  hold  the  dew. 
winking,  because  marigolds  close  at  night, 
pleasance,  gaiety, 
brave,  line,  splendid, 
prime,  youth. 

Henry  V  before  Harfleur.  To  select  a  typical  passage  from 
the  dramatic  verse  of  Shakspere  is  diflicult,  because  proper  selections 
are  so  many.  This  one  is  strong,  however,  as  well  as  subtle,  and  shows 
the  young  King  in  the  exuberance  of  his  royal  leadership,  with  his 
loyal  knights  and  eager  yeomen  waiting  on  his  word.  If  there  is  a 
touch  of  bombast  in  the  address  it  may  not  be  Shakspere's  so  much  as 
King  Henry's  own.  Shouldn't  you  like  to  have  Shakspere  compose  a 
campaign  speech  for  your  candidate,  or  a  football  speech  before  your 
team  went  out  to  play? 

breach,  the  hole  already  broken  in  the  city  wall. 
be  copy,  here  he  addresses  his  noble  generals. 
yeomen,  the  freemen  of  Englaid  who  had  so  successfully  fought  the 

many  battles  of  the  Hunorc'  Years'  War. 
mettle  of  your  pasture,  the  spirit  produced  by  your  English  breeding. 

BEN  JOXSON 

Jonson's  life  was  composed  of  contradictory  elements  from  begin- 
ning to  end;  good  birth  but  much  poverty;  learning  and  bricklaying; 


326 


Introductions  and  Notes 


hearty  friendships  and  violent  quarrels;  sword  and  pen;  destitute 
old  age  and  unparalleled  fame.  H§  was  recognized  by  the  king  and 
made  poet  laureate,  and  he  was  also  recognized  by  his  fellow-poets 
as  their  example  and  autocrat.  He  produced  many  dramas,  mainly 
comedies,  in  the  first  of  which,  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,  Shakspere 
played  a  part  in  1598.  He  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey  in  the 
Poets'  Corner,  in  a  tomb  inscribed  with  the  simple  but  eloquent 
words,  "O  Rare  Ben  Jonson!"  It  was  he  who  referred  to  Marlowe's 
blank  verse  as  "Marlowe's  mighty  line,"  and  it  was  he  who  said  of 
Shakspere,  that  he  had  "small  Latin  and  less  Greek"  (see  page  45). 

Jonson's  fondness  for  classical  learning  may  be  inferred  from  the 
following  story,  if  one  understands  that  in  his  day  a  common  name 
for  brass  was  lattcn.  "  It  is  related  that  Shakspere  was  godfather  to 
one  of  Ben  Jonson's  children,  and  said  to  his  friend  after  the  christen- 
ing, 'I'  faith,  Ben,  I'll  e'en  give  him  a  dozen  good  latten  spoons,  and 
thou  shalt  translate  them.'  "  Jonson  wrote  a  book  in  which  the  laws 
of  both  Latin  and  English  grammar  were  explained. 

Simplex  Muxditiis.  This  title  may  be  rendered,  "artless  in  adorn- 
ment^'. It  is  drawn  from  a  Latin  ode  in  which  Horace  describes  a 
beautiful  coquette.  Naturally,  Ben  Jonson,  being  a  great  scholar, 
would  use  a  Latin  phrase  for  a  title.  Perhaps  the  phrase  suggested 
the  poem. 
still,  ever,  always. 

To  THE  Memory  of  my  Beloved  Master.  How  could  the  same 
pen  produce  this  rugged  metre,  that  flowed  so  smoothly  in  the  lyrics 
which  precede?  But  this  blank  verse  is  not  all  harsh;  it  contains  many 
eloquent  as  well  as  wise  and  learned  passages,  and  much  material  of 
interest  to  one  who  wants  to  know  what  Jonson  thought  of  his  in-' 
timate  friend,  Shakspere. 
suffrage,  vote. 

without  a  tomb,  hence,  living. 
great  but  disproportioned,  Chaucer  and  Spenser  were  great,  but  not 

in  Shakspere's  "class." 
seek,  lack. 

buskin  tread,  tragedy;  socks,  comedy,  after  the  foot-gear  of  the  actors 
in  the  old  Greek  drama.    When  the  tragic  hero  was  overwhelmed 
by  fate,  his  fall  seemed  greater  because  he  was  such  a  gigantic 
person.    The  reverse  was  true  in  the  outcome  of  a  comedy. 
for  the  laurel,  in  place  of  the  laurel. 
issue,  children. 
shake  a  lance,  a  pun  on  Shakespere's  name,  and  an  old  one,  at  that. 


Introductions  and  Notes  327 

banks  of  Thames,  the  Swan  Theatre  was  on  the  south  side  of  the 

Thames,  at  Banksidc. 
Eliza,  Elizabeth. 
James,  James  VI  of  Scotland,  who  succeeded  Elizabeth  on  England's 

throne. 
advanced,  posted  or  set. 
Star  of  Poets,  generous  praise  from  one  who,  himself,  occupied  the 

position  of  greatest  glory  among  the  living  dramatists  of  the 

time. 

GEORGE  WITHER 

Shall  I,  Wasting  in  Despair.  In  this  declaration  of  independence, 
we  have  our  first  taste  of  the  light,  deft,  gentlemanly  verse  of  the 
Cavalier  Poets.  One  sees  clearly  that  the  lover  is  not  the  sort  to  waste 
away  in  despair;  and  one  is  inclined  to  suspect  that  when  the  lady 
read  his  gay  verses,  she  promptly  assured  him  there  was  no  reason 
why  he  should.  In  other  words,  there  is  a  playfulness,  an  open  un- 
reality or  insincerity,  about  this  t}-pe  of  verse,  vers  de  soci6te,  that  we 
find  at  once  artificial  and  delightful.  It  represents  only  one  side  of 
Wither's  poetry,  however;  he  lived  a  long  and  varied  life,  and  in 
politics  and  religion  showed  very  interesting  changes  of  front  to  the 
world  as  it  advanced  on  its  way  from  Elizabeth,  through  the  Puritan 
period,  to  the  Restoration.  His  seventy-nine  j'ears  were  li\'ed  in  an 
age  of  England's  history  that  must  have  made  them  pass  very  swiftly. 
are,  pronounced  air,  not  only  here  but  commonly  until  the  last 

century. 
silly,  empty. 

WILLIAM  BROWNE 

Epitaph  on  the  Countess.    This  compliment  to  the  sister  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney  is  attributed  with  strong  probability  to  William  Browne, 
though  it  is  far  better  known  than  he.    The  last  line  repeats  the 
image,  a  favorite  one  in  that  age,  of  the  death  of  Death, 
sable  hearse,  black  pall. 

ROBERT  HERRICK 

Herrick  was  the  greatest  of  the  disciples  of  Ben  Jonson  among  the 
lyrical  poets.  His  work  had  power  as  well  as  grace,  and  religious 
fervor  as  well  as  social  charm.     Stopford  Brooke  says,  "Herrick  was 


328 


Introductions  and  Notes 


the  most  remarkable  of  those  who  at  this  time  sat  below  the  mountain 
top  on  which  Milton  was  alone." 

To  THE  Virgins.  A  piece  of  advice  put  in  the  light  and  gracious 
form  which  was  in  vogue  in  the  time  of  Charles  I. 

Delight  in  Disorder,  a  different  treatment  of  the  same  thought  as 
Ben  Jonson's  Simplex  Munditiis.     Which  do  you  p:)refer?     Julia's 
silk  dress  afforded  an  occasion  for  another  bit  of  vers  de  sociSli. 
wantonness,  wilfulness. 
erring,  wandering. 
enthrals,  embraces. 
stomacher,  bodice,  or  wide  belt. 

To  Anthea.    a  thrilling  love  song,  especially  when  sung  in  its  fine 
setting  by  Hatton.    (Songs  of  England  I). 
Protestant,  I  will  protest,  or  swear,  myself  thine  forever. 

GEORGE  HERBERT 

George  Herbert  went  from  his  native  Wales  to  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  and  then,  as  vicar,  to  the  "more  pleasant  than  healthful 
Bemerton."  Here  he  lived  in  the  love  and  reverence  of  the  simple 
people  of  his  parish,  spread  abroad  the  "sweet  and  serious  learning 
of  the  17th  century,"  and,  in  particular,  wrote  many  short  poems. 

His  volume  of  poems  called  The  Temple  contains  one  hundred  and 
fifty  numbers,  compact  with  thought,  and  breathing  a  sincerity  and  a 
spirit  of  consecration  unsurpassed  in  literature.  The  four  numbers 
which  represent  Herbert  in  this  collection  are  all  drawn  from  The 
Temple.  Observe  the  simplicity  of  their  language,  their  strength,  and 
the  ingenuity  of  their  thought.  These  qualities  were  calculated  to 
appeal  strongly  to  people  in  the  so-called  Puritan  age,  and  they 
help  us  of  the  present  time  to  appreciate  Professor  George  Herbert 
Palmer's  saying,  that  Herbert  was  "the  first  in  English  Poetry  to 
talk  face  to  face  with  God." 
angry  and  brave,  red  and  splendid. 
the  world's  riches,  literally,  all  man's  for  the  asking,  and  no  other 

creature's. 
Sorrow  dogging  sin,  a  perfect  ideal  of  discipline  in  school  or  elsewhere, 

since  only  thus  can  our  frail  humanity  acquire  virtue — sorrow, 

like  a  dog,  close  on  the  heels  of  sin. 
cunning,  sly,  taking  us  unaware. 
his  tincture,  its  touch,  that  is,  the  touch  of  the  Eli.xir.    His  for  its 

was  common. 


Introductions  and  Notes  329 

famous  stone,  the  philosopher's  stone,  or  elixir,  which,  when  found, 

would  turn  base  metal  into  Rold. 
be  told,  be  counted  and  hence  valued  (related  to  "teller"  and  "  toll  "). 

EDMUXD  WALLER 

Waller  was  the  first  of  that  school  of  poets  in  the  17th  century 
which  prepared  the  way  for  Dryden  and  Pope.  The  fire  and  freedom 
of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth  had  diminished,  and  influences  both  native 
to  England  and  brought  in  from  France  began  to  alter  the  type  of 
poetry.  It  grew  careful,  cold,  fine,  and  comparatively  small.  Waller's 
special  contribution  to  this  movement,  which  is  called  "classical," 
was  the  reproduction  of  Chaucer's  heroic  couplet,  with  a  smoothness 
which  made  it  tempting  to  every  writer  that  followed  him  for  more 
than  a  century — notably  to  Dryden,  Pope  and  Goldsmith. 
pale,  fence,  or  boundary,  and  hence  sometimes  the  space  enclosed 

within  the  fence. 
deer,  a  common  and  unworthy  pun,  but  not  as  distressing  to  the  ears 

of  Waller's  day  as  to  ours.    The  Elizabethan  looked  upon  a  pun 

not  as  a  joke  to  be  smiled  at,  but  as  an  ingenious  use  of  words  to 

be  admired. 

JOHN  MILTON 

The  man,  John  Milton,  appears  In  his  writing  in  a  more  marked 
degree  than  any  other  poet  of  his  age,  except  perhaps  George  Herbert. 
Even  when  he  is  deliberately  representing  a  "character"  as  speaking, 
it  is  Milton's  thought  and  feeling  that  find  expression;  and  this  is 
more  true  still  in  the  fi\e  sonnets  given  below,  where  he  speaks  not 
dramatically,  but  directly.  Observe,  in  the  first,  the  young  man's 
ideals;  in  the  second,  the  eloquent  praise  of  his  political  chief;  in  the 
third,  the  exultation  of  the  Puritan  over  the  devotion  of  the  martyrs 
of  Piedmont;  in  the  fourth,  the  consolation  for  his  terrible  affliction, 
which  he  found  in  religion;  in  the  last,  the  "proud  humility"  of  a 
patriot,  who  knows  how  richly  he  has  been  paid  in  the  coin  of  the 
soul  for  the  sacrifice  of  his  physical  eyesight.  To  sum  up  the  man  of 
these  five  sonnets,  then,  we  find  lofty  self-esteem,  intense  loyalty  to 
ideas  and  to  friends,  and  a  faith  in  God  as  lasting  and  as  deep  as  life 
itself. 

In  form,  the  sonnets  are  an  adaptation  of  the  Italian  type — the 
earliest  in  English  poetry.  It  is  worth  while  to  note  the  oft-quoted 
phrase  in  the  one  on  Cromwell,  and  the  one  on  his  blindness.    Observe 


330  Introductions  and  Notes 

also  in  the  one  to  Cyriack  Skinner,  the  resoUite  Saxon  passage  be- 
ginning "Nor  bate  a  jot  of  heart  or  hope,"  and  the  passage  in  which 
he  exults  over  his  foe  in  the  recent  international  debate  between  the 
Commonwealth  of  England  and  the  monarchies  of  Europe.  His 
greatest  works  were  written  after  he  became  blind — Paradise  Lost, 
Paradise  Regained,  and  Sai)iso)i  Agonisles. 

Milton  was  only  eight  years  old  when  Shakspere  died,  and  he  was 
not  born  till  James  I  had  been  five  years  on  the  English  Throne;  but 
he  may  properly  be  regarded  as  in  certain  respects  one  of  the  Eliz- 
abethan poets;  he  himself  said  he  felt  he  had  "been  born  an  age  too 
late."  No  better  evidence  of  his  kinship  with  the  writers  of  the  elder 
generation  is  needed  than  his  Epitaph  on  Sliakspere,  especially  the 
last  two  verses,  which  Shakspere  himself  might  have  written.  But 
viewed  in  its  larger  aspects  his  genius  had  the  freedom  and  originality, 
the  sympathy  with  the  great  currents  of  contemporary  life,  the  limit- 
less scope  and  energy,  which  characterize  the  Elizabethan  Age. 
Milton  differs  from  Shakspere  and  his  fellow  dramatists  in  being  de- 
cidedly more  a  conscious  artist — more  seriously  bent  on  being  a  great 
poet.  This  mood  or  attitude  contrasts  with  the  Elizabethan,  in  which 
the  greatest  feats,  in  every  line  of  human  activity,  were  performed 
without  any  apparent  realization  of  their  stupendous  importance. 

Milton  at  twent}'-three  had  just  been  advised  to  give  up  poetry  as 
a  life-work  and  go  into  the  church.    This  sonnet  is  his  answer, 
timely-happy,  those  whose  age  and  maturity  more  clearly  correspond, 
secular  chains,  state  support  for  the  clergy — a  policy  which  both 

Milton  and  Cromwell  opposed,  as  hostile  to  religious  freedom. 
slaughtered  saints,  the  Piedmontese  Protestants  were  victims  of  the 

zeal  of  their  Catholic  ruler,  the  Duke  of  Savoy. 
triple  Tyrant,  the  pope,  who  wore  a  triple  crown  called  the  tiara. 
babylonian  woe,  the  evils  associated  with  the  rule  of  Rome,  the  mod- 
ern Babylon.    See  Revelation,  chaps.  XVII  and  XVHL 
my  light  is  spent,  JNIilton  became  blind  gradually,  but  probably 
totally  lost  his  sight  about  1652. 

SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING 

Sir  John  Suckling  was  a  gallant  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  a  witty, 
sprightly,  and  dashing  companion,  and  a  typical  "Cavalier"  poet. 
He  pawned  his  estate  to  furnish  King  Charles  with  a  troop  of  cavalry, 
and  he  rode  to  his  death  in  Paris  on  an  errand  for  his  Queen. 
Prithee,  short  for,  I  pray  thee. 


Introductions  and  Notes  331 


CAPTAIN  RICHARD  LOVELACE 

A  courtier,  rich,  handsome,  dashing,  widely  famous,  and  a  true 
Cavalier,  was  Captain  Richard  Lovelace.  His  gallantry  and  com- 
radeship were  of  a  finer  order  than  Sir  John  Suckling's;  and  his  verse, 
though  not  so  witty,  was  far  more  beautiful.  Each  of  the  two  ex- 
amples here  given  contains  a  passage  universally  quoted.  Can  you 
account  for  the  popularity  of  each  passage?  [It  is  true,  is  it  not,  that 
a  phrase  passes  into  common  use  as  a  quotation  because  it  is  thought 
a  particularly  effective  way  to  express  an  idea.  It  is  also  true  that  the 
idea  itself  must  be  one  of  general  application,  and  that  its  expression 
must  be  brief  or  striking.  What  sort  of  passage  is  most  likely  to  be 
quoted  from  the  Bible?  Try  putting  some  of  the  everyday  proverbs 
into  a  new  form  of  words,  say —  "a  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss," 
or,  "a  fool  and  his  money  are  soon  parted."  How  did  it  happen  that 
"Abe"  Lincoln  acquired  his  great  reputation  for  originality  of  speech, 
when  the  most  marked  feature  of  his  conversation  was  his  use  of  a 
never-failing  supply  of  these  common  adages?] 

To  Althea,  from  Prison.  The  first  thing  to  notice  in  this  love- 
song  is  the  central  thought,  which  appears  most  plainly  in  the  first  two 
verses  of  the  last  stanza.  That  being  the  theme  of  the  sorg,  how  is 
it  expanded?  What  standard  of  liberty  does  the  imprisoned  soldier 
use  in  the  opening  stanza?  He  is  as  free  as  the  fishes  in  the  sea,  in 
the  second  stanza;  as  the  winds  of  heaven  in  the  third;  and  as  the 
angels  abo\'e  in  the  last. 

wanton  in  the  air,  do  utterly  as  they  will  in  the  air. 
allaying  Thames,  diluting  water. 

conmiitted  linnets,  imprisoned,  as  Captain  Lovelace  was.  He  was 
guilty  of  ha\ing  dared  to  present  to  Parliament  a  petition  in 
behalf  of  King  Charles. 


JOHN  DRYDEN 

John  Dryden  was  poet  laureate  to  Charles  II.  He  was  born  in 
the  reign  of  Charles  I,  lived  through  the  Commonwealth,  then  through 
the  Restoration  and  the  Revolution,  and  almost  through  the  reign  of 
William  III,  dying  two  years  before  Anne  came  to  the  throne.  His 
position  was  eminent  throughout  these  various  fortunes  of  the  state; 
and  toward  the  close  of  his  life,  Dryden's  talents,  age,  and  political 
experience  gave  him  the  name  and  authority  of  literary  dictator. 


332  Introductions  and  Notes 

He  was  called  King  Dryden,  and  the  date  of  his  death  may  be  con- 
sidered a  turning  point  in  the  literary  history  of  England. 

The  inscription  for  the  Portrait  of  Milton  is,  of  course,  chiefly  in- 
teresting as  a  tribute  of  the  great  Dryden  to  a  contemporary  poet,  who 
might  have  called  forth  jealousy  instead  of  admiration.  It  is  also 
interesting  as  an  example  of  the  way  in  which  Dryden  handled  that 
familiar  medium  of  all  the  English  poets  from  1675  to  1775, — the 
"heroic  couplet."  Note  the  five  beats,  the  "iambic"  foot,  the  rhyme; 
but  mark  the  vigor,  reserve,  and  full  content  of  the  v'erse;  for  while 
outwardly  this  line  and  that  of  a  hundred  lesser  writers  are  the  same, 
it  will  be  felt  that  Drj'den  was  master  of  the  form,  while  some  other 
poets  were  mastered  by  it,  and  so  failed  to  fill  it  with  themselves — 
their  thought,  their  emotion,  their  personality. 
Three  poets,  Homer,  Virgil,  Milton. 

distant  ages,  distant  not  from  Dryden  (for  Milton  was  Dryden's 
contemporary),  but  distant  from  one  another. 

The  two  songs  in  honor  of  St.  Cecilia,  who  invented  the  pipe- 
organ,  were  ten  years  apart  in  time,  and  equally  distinct  in  treat- 
ment; while  each  is,  of  course,  devoted  to  the  same  theme — the 
praise  of  music. 

MATTHEW  PRIOR 

From  three  or  four  sentences  in  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Facts  we  can 
draw  a  none  too  flattering  impression  of  "Matt  Prior." 

"Matthew  Prior  is  one  of  those  that  have  burst  out  from  an  obscure 
original  to  great  eminence.  His  opinions,  so  far  as  the  means  of  judg- 
ing are  left  us,  seem  to  have  been  right;  but  his  life  was  irregular, 
negligent,  and  sensual.  Prior  has  written  with  great  variety  and  his 
variety  has  made  him  popular.  He  has  tried  all  styles,  from  the 
grotesque  to  the  solemn,  and  has  not  so  failed  in  any  as  to  incur  de- 
rision or  disgrace.  Whatever  Prior  obtains  al)ove  mediocrity  seems 
the  effort  of  struggle  and  of  toil.  He  has  many  vigorous  but  few  happy 
lines;  he  has  everything  by  purchase  and  nothing  by  gift;  he  has  no 
nightly  visitations  of  the  Muse,  no  infusions  of  sentiment  or  felicities 
of  fancy." 

JOSEPH  ADDISON 

Addison,  a  profound  admirer  of  Milton,  was  a  greater  essayist 
than  poet,  but  he  was  skilful  in  handling  the  heroic  couplet,  and 
turned  his  skill  to  the  service,  on  the  whole,  of  useful  ends.    He  was  a 


Introductions  and  Notes  333 

mild  and  friendly  spirit  in  an  age  of  jealousy  and  bitter  satire,  and 
wrote  more  than  one  hymn  of  lofty  and  inspiring  religious  tone.  The 
Spacious  Firmament  is  sung  to  the  music  of  the  great  German  com- 
poser, Haydn. 

The  extravagant  compliment  to  Mira  is  intended  to  represent  the 
silly  verses  tossed  off  by  such  poets  of  the  time  as  "  Ned  Softly."  To 
enjoy  its  humor  thoroughly  one  must  read  it  in  its  setting  in  the 
Taller  essaj',  No.  163. 

ISAAC  WATTS 

Watts  was  not  a  poet  who  could  be  called  great,  though  a  volu- 
minous writer  of  prose  and  verse,  especially  of  hymns.  He  is  often 
quoted — his  talent  was  broad,  not  high.  At  an  early  age  (before  six) 
Watts's  poetical  genius  developed  itself;  and  along  with  Milton  and 
Pope,  he  may  be  said  to  have  "lisped  in  numbers."  It  was  a  custom 
with  his  mother  to  engage  her  husband's  pupils  after  school  hours  in 
writing  her  some  verses,  for  which  she  used  to  reward  them  with  a 
farthing.  When  little  Watts's  turn  came  to  exercise  his  gift  for  the 
first  time,  he  furnished  the  following  couplet: 

"I  write  not  for  a  farthing,  but  to  try 
How  I  your  farthing  writers  can  outvie." 

Here  are  two  examples  of  "didactic"  verse,  so  called  because  they 
teach  a  certain  virtue.  What  familiar  lines  in  these  two  poems?  How 
old  should  a  boy  be  to  outgrow  the  need  of  such  lessons? 

Many  of  the  most  beautiful  old  hymns  in  every  modern  hymn-book 
were  written  by  this  quaint,  strong,  sincere,  old-fashioned  clergyman, 
perhaps  the  best  known  of  "  Dissenters."  What  quahties  do  you  note 
in  the  hjmn  given  here  to  justify  its  use,  year  after  year,  by  people 
whose  point  of  view  is  quite  at  variance  with  Dr.  Watts's?  Is  its 
secret  of  continued  usefulness  to  be  found  in  its  language?  In  its 
imager>'?  Its  rhythm?  Its  religious  elevation?  Is  there  a  single 
current  of  thought  running  through  its  seven  stanzas,  or  could  one  be 
omitted  without  loss? 

ALEXANDER  POPE 

Pope  is  to  be  admired  for  his  wit  and  his  i:)ersistent  devotion  to  the 
art  of  poetry.  He  is  to  be  pitied  because  he  was  an  unhappy  person, 
diseased  in  body  and  soul,  and  torn  between  the  best  he  knew  and 


334  Introductions  and  Notes 

the  poor  best  he  could  be  and  do.  He  had  no  small  capacity  for  reli- 
gious aspiration,  as  may  be  seen  in  his  Universal  Pra\"er;  for 
humor  untouched  by  rancour,  as  in  the  inscription  he  put  on  the 
collar  of  the  dog  he  presented  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham;  for  the 
grace  of  sincere  compliment,  as  in  On  a  Certain  Lady  at  Court. 
But  how  far  apart  in  sweetness  of  spirit  are  the  two  views  of  Addison, 
twenty  years  apart  in  time!  The  last,  in  the  epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot, 
shows  why  the  little  fellow  in  his  grotto  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames 
has  been  called  the  "Asp  of  Twickenham." 

After  all,  the  thing  about  Pope  we  must  not  allow  to  be  forgotten 
is  that  he  was  the  most  exquisite  poet  of  his  age.  If  you  want  to 
understand  this  saying  in  a  thorough  and  delightful  way,  read  The 
Rape  oj  the  Lock,  which  space  alone  excluded  from  this  collection. 

HENRY  CAREY 

The  Maiden's  Ideal  of  a  Husband  contrasts  sharply  with  the 
crude  but  hearty  views  of  the  apprentice  about  an  ideal  wife.  But 
the  song  of  Sally  has  been  sung  since  the  Seventeenth  Century,  and 
is  a  fine  song  yet. 

JAMES  THOMSON 

Rule,  Britannia  is  patriotic  to  the  extreme  which  in  modern 
times  is  called  jingoism.  It  is  perhaps  natural  that  the  national  note 
should  have  changed  since  Thomson's  time,  because  what  he  was 
ambitious  for  has  come  to  pass,  and  far  more  than  he  dreamed  of  as  a 
possible  expansion  of  British  power.  But  it  has  changed  also  because 
a  higher  ideal  of  power  has  taken  possession  of  the  British  imagina- 
tion, as  may  be  seen  in  the  Recessional  of  Kipling,  page  292. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

The  mighty  lexicographer  writing  playful  quatrains  is  something 
like  a  hippopotamus  dancing.  But  he  is  very  fine  in  his  lament  on 
the  death  of  the  old  doctor  Robert  Levct,  whom  he  harbored  in  his 
hospitable  home  for  years.  The  poem  shows  rough-coated  old  John- 
son in  his  native  largeness  of  heart  and  tenderness  of  Christian  sym- 
pathy. By  way  of  realizing  what  a  difference  the  point  of  view  may 
make,  notice  that  Macaulay,  in  his  Life  of  Johnson,  describes  Dr. 
Levet  in  the  following  terms:  "An  old  quack  doctor  named  Levet, 
who  bled  and  dosed  coal-heavers  and  hackney  coachmen,  and  rp- 


Introductions  and  Notes  335 

ceived  for  fees  crusts  of  bread,  bits  of  bacon,  glasses  of  gin,  and  some- 
times a  little  copper."  If  you  were  thinking  of  writing  a  poem,  should 
you  dare  to  try  j-our  talents  on  a  subject  as  unpromising  as  that? 
Yet  Johnson  succeeded.  Was  it  his  feeling  or  his  art  that  made 
success  possible? 

THOMAS  GRAY 

Here  we  have  the  most  important  Eighteenth  Century  poet  who 
broke  away  from  the  classical  rules  binding  the  most  of  his  con- 
temporaries. The  Age  of  Classicism  was  formal;  Gray  thought  more 
of  the  "spirit,"  and  less  of  the  "letter,"  and  consequently  produced 
a  "letter"  which  has  lived. 

The  Elegy.    This  is  especially  true  of  his  immortal  Elegy,  a  poem 
not  easy  for  a  young  student  to  grasp  in  its  detail,  but  richly  worth  his 
while  to  study,  to  understand,  and  even  to  learn  by  heart. 
stillness  is  subject,  not  object  of  holds. 
glebe,  turf, 
jocund,  jolly. 

trophies  raise,  as  was  common  in  the  churches.     The  Henry  VII 

chapel  in  Westminster  Abbey  is  still  hung  thick  with  battle-flags. 

fretted  vault,  the  arched  ceiling,  with  Gothic  carvings  laced  upon  its 

surface. 
Storied  urn,  an  urn  with  an  inscription  or  picture  upon  its  sides, 
animated  bust,  lifelike  statue, 
provoke,  call  forth, 
pregnant,  full. 

waked  to  ecstasy,  etc.,  become  a  great  poet, 
the  spoils  of  time,  history. 
noble  rage,  ambition. 
Hampden,  who  withstood  Charles  I. 

heap  the  shrine,  etc.,  flatter  the  rich  and  proud  with  poetical  ad- 
dresses. 
madding,  raging. 
sequestered,  separated,  remote, 
tenor,  course. 
uncouth,  crude. 
hoary-headed,  gray. 

On  the  Death  of  a  Favorite  Cat.  To  those  who  know  Gray  only 
in  his  Elegy,  the  delicate  humor  which  he  displays  in  this  poem  will 
prove  a  pleasant  surprise. 


336 


Introductions  and  Notes 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


Goldsmith,  beloved  of  Garrick,  Burke,  Johnson,  and  the  beautiful 
Miss  Horneck,  the  "  Jessamy  Bride,"  was  the  ne'er-do-well  of  British 
poets,  who  really  believed  it  "more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive," 
who  "wrote  like  an  angel  and  talked  like  poor  Poll,"  and  who  wrote 
himself  and  his  humorous  experiences  into  many  forms  of  literature. 
The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  was  his  novel;  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  his  great 
play;  The  Traveler  and  the  Deserted  Village,  his  serious  poems.  But 
his  own  portrait,  awkward,  unsuccessful,  cheerful,  lovable,  is  uncon- 
sciously painted  in  each. 

The  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog  was  sung  to  the  family 
gathering  at  the  Vicar's,  by  rosy-cheeked  Bill  Primrose  at  his  reverend 
father's  request. 

Little  Bill:  "Which  song  do  you  choose,  The  Dying  Swan,  or  the 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog?" 

The  Vicar:  "The  Elegy,  child,  by  all  means.  And  Deborah,  my  life, 
you  know  grief  is  drj^;  let  us  have  a  bottle  of  the  best  gooseberry 
wine,  to  keep  up  our  spirits."  Then,  when  the  song  is  over,  "  A  very 
good  boy,  Bill,  upon  my  word;  and  an  Elegy  that  may  trulj'  be  called 
tragical.  Come,  my  children,  here's  Bill's  health,  and  may  he  one 
day  be  a  bishop!" 

WILLIAM   COWPER 

Cowper  was  another  pioneer  of  the  modern  movement  of  his  age 
in  poetical  form.  Such  men  as  Cowper  and  Gray  are  called  Roman- 
ticists, because  they  rebelled,  mildly  or  violently,  as  may  be,  against 
classicism,  or  the  rule  of  accepted  custom.  The  romanticists  of  one 
age  may  come  to  seem  very  conventional  to  the  eyes  of  a  later  time. 
Is  there  not  in  our  day  a  freedom  of  versification  far  beyond  that  of 
Gray  and  Cowper? 

BoADiCEA  and  On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George  are  poems 
which  reflect  in  their  simplicity  and  sympathy  the  mood  which  was 
usual  in  Cowper  in  his  daily  experience.  But  this  habitual  depression 
was  delightfully  interrupted  by  rays  of  tender  joy,  and  even  of  rol- 
licking fun.  Of  these  periods  of  relief  the  Epitaph  on  a  Hare  illustrates 
one  mood,  and  the  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin,  another. 


Introductions  and  Notes  337 


CHARLES  DIBDIN 

A  famous  writer  of  sea-songs,  of  which  two  are  given  below.  The 
music,  also  Dibdin's,  to  which  they  are  set,  is  as  much  in  character  as 
the  words  themseUcs.  So  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  they  have 
been  sung  with  pleasure  for  generations. 

RICHARD   BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN 

The  brilliant,  irresponsible,  romantic  beau,  politician,  orator,  and 
dramatist, — bosom-friend  of  the  Prince  who  finally  became  George 
IV.  This  little  quatrain  of  the  clever  Irishman  is  of  interest  chiefly 
because  it  shows  Fox  "broke"  as  usual,  and  because  it  shows  North 
witty  as  usual. 

WILLIAM  BLAKE 

There  is  no  more  interesting  personality  among  the  poets  of  his  age 
than  William  Blake;  yet  it  is  difficult  to  tell  why.  To  say  that  he  was 
tender-hearted  to  the  point  of  fanaticism,  does  not  give  the  right 
impression;  nor  to  call  his  writings  wonderful,  and  his  paintings  still 
rnore  so;  nor  to  enumerate  other  traits  or  accomplishments.  There  is 
something  in  the  man,  as  he  lived  his  seventy  varied  years  in  London, 
that  convinces  us  of  his  genius,  aside  from  anything  he  did  or  said. 
It  is  partly  that  everything  he  did  or  said  was  accompanied  by  an 
intense,  a  burning,  sincerity.  Before  he  became  impressed  with  the 
sin  and  sorrow  of  the  world  he  wrote  the  Songs  of  huiocence  with 
unquestioning  faith  and  hope.  After  the  bitter  fate  of  most  of  man- 
kind was  revealed  to  him  in  the  life  of  London,  he  put  forth  the  Songs 
of  Experience,  with  a  corresponding  desolation  of  heart, — with  awe, 
grief,  and  a  tremulous  sympathy.  A  glance  at  the  two  poems  will 
illustrate  the  contrasting  states  of  mind  and  heart  in  this  great  nature 
of  his. 

ROBERT  BURNS 

Many  are  the  phases  of  genius  in  this  Ayrshire  ploughman  that  we 
cannot  touch  on  here.  He  was  not  only  by  nature  one  of  the  greatest 
men;  he  was  one  of  the  very  greatest  writers  of  songs  in  all  the  world. 
His  soul  was  a  singing  soul.  The  first  six  songs  given  below  are  love- 
songs:  the  first,  passionate;  the  second,  placid;  the  third,  pathetic; 
the  fourth,  the  address  of  an  ancient  wife  to  her  dear  old  husband; 


338 


Introductions  and  Notes 


the  fifth,  winsome;  the  sixth,  tragic.  Then  comes  that  cry  of  the  soul 
of  one,  who,  pitying  the  misfortune  of  the  "wee  beastie,"  gets  be- 
trayed into  a  reflection  on  the  greater  ruin  of  his  own  life.  There  are 
those  who  find  the  next  poem,  For  a'  That,  somewhat  hollow  and 
boastful  on  the  part  of  Honest  Poverty.  But  such  a  one  misses  the 
rare  thrill  that  comes  from  taking  Burns  at  his  simple  word.  The 
men  of  wealth  and  rank  are  apt  to  be  the  first  to  agree  with  the  poet 
that  simple  manhood  is  the  greatest  thing. 

My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands  pulsates  with  that  thought  of  life 
in  the  open,  the  free,  and  the  famiHar  which  cheers  us  through  the 
winter's  work.  Not  many  of  us  could  express  our  memories  and  fan- 
cies and  longings  with  such  a  swift  torrent  of  words. 

AuLD  Lang  Syne  is  commonly  sung  at  the  breaking  up  of  a 
gathering  of  friends.  1 1  has  been  well  pointed  out  that  it  is  a  forward- 
looking  song,  particularly  fit  to  be  sung  at  the  beginning  of  a  reunion 
of  old  cronies.  Sung  first  or  last,  it  is  the  all  but  universal  language 
of  loyal  friendship. 

In  Macpherson's  Farewell  we  have  a  doughty  Highland  hero, 
overtaken  at  last  by  his  political  foe,  and  doomed  to  die  on  the 
"gallows-tree."  With  his  bag-pipes  he  "dauntingly"  played,  and 
sang  and  danced,  alone,  to  his  own  music.  Such  desperate  courage 
deserved  a  better  fate. 

Another  "  true  "  poem,  about  a  whole  army  of  just  such  proud  Scots 
as  Macpherson,  is  found  in  the  address  of  the  younger  Bruce,  who 
fought  his  way  to  the  Scottish  crown.    The  stirring  power  of  these 
lines  would  rouse  the  fighting  blood  of  any  man,  especially  when 
sung  to  their  well-known  tune. 
airts,  directions, 
row,  roll. 
shaw,  thicket. 
fause,  false. 
wist,  knew. 
ilka,  every. 
staw,  stole. 
jo,  sweetheart. 
brent,  smooth. 
pow,  poll,  head, 
canty,  happy. 
bide,  endure. 
stour,  struggle. 
yestreen,  yestere'en,  last  night. 


Introductions  and  Notes  339 

faut,  fault. 

drumlie,  muddy. 

birk,  birch. 

bickering,  flickering. 

brattle,  scamper. 

laith,  loath. 

pattle,  paddle  (carried  to  clean  the  plough). 

whiles,  sometimes. 

daimen  icker  in  a  thrave,  an  occasional  spear  of  grain  in  two  dozen 

sheaves. 
lave,  rest. 
silly,  empty. 
wa's,  walls. 
big,  build. 

foggage,  grass  grown  up  after  the  mowing. 
snell,  sharp. 
coulter,  cutter. 
But,  without. 
hald,  hold,  refuge. 
thole,  endure. 
cranreuch,  hoarfrost, 
a-gley,  wrong. 
hodden-gray,  homespun. 
birkie,  smartie,  stuck-up  young  fellow. 
coof,  coward. 
ribbon,  star,  showing  that  he  is  a  Knight  of  the  Garter — a  nobleman 

particularly  honored  by  the  king. 
maunna  fa',  must  not  lay  claim  to. 
bear  the  gree,  win  the  prize. 
roe,  the  red  deer. 

straths,  river-bottoms,  broad  valleys, 
wild-hanging,  hanging  over  wild  places. 
auld  lang  syne,  old  long-past  time, 
pint-stoup,  pint-measure. 
braes,  hills. 
pou'd,  pulled, 
gowans,  daisies. 
fit,  foot. 
bum,  brook. 
dine,  dinner. 
braid,  broad. 


340  Introductions  and  Notes 

fiere,  companion. 

gie's,  give  us. 

guid- Willie  waught,  health. 

sturt,  trouble. 

distain,  stain. 

rantingly,  with  boisterous  gaiety. 

wantonly,  recklessly. 

dauntingly,  daringly. 

low,  lower. 

LADY  NAIRNE 

Caroline  Oliphant,  Lady  Nairne,  was  a  famous  Scotch  beauty.  She 
wrote  many  plaintive  songs.  The  Land  o'  the  Leal,  Caller  Herrin', 
and  Will  ye  no  come  back  again?  are  especially  familiar,  in  their  melo- 
dious settings,  to  all  lovers  of  Scotch  minstrelsy.  The  Laird  o' 
CocKPEN  exhibits  her  gift  of  that  kind  of  humor  which  is  akin  to 
pathos. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Wordsworth  lived  eighty  years.  He  followed  Southey  as  Laureate. 
His  young  manhood  was  marked  by  two  very  significant  things: 
he  was  an  ardent  sympathizer  with  the  European  movement  for 
liberty  which  culminated  in  the  French  Revolution;  and  he  brought 
out  with  Coleridge  in  1798  a  volume  of  poems  called  Lyrical  Ballads, 
in  which  was  expounded  a  new  theory  of  j^oetry.  The  idea  was  that 
poetry  called  for  simple  themes  treated  in  simple  words,  the  language 
and  the  imagery  of  every  day.  Wordsworth's  "Revolutionary" 
spirit  soon  evaporated,  and  he  became  staid,  domestic,  rural,  devoted 
to  his  mountains  and  his  lakes,  and  the  human  interests  that  they 
contain.  But  he  never  got  far  away  from  his  youthful  theory  of 
great  poetry  in  small  words.  Sometimes  he  kept  to  the  simple  lan- 
guage and  fell  short  of  the  great  thought.  But  in  most  of  his  lyrics, 
there  is  a  purity  of  feeling  and  a  majesty  of  utterance  that  appeal 
to  his  readers  as  admirable  and  moving. 

The  Solitary  Reaper  gives  what  was  doubtless  one  of  Words- 
worth's actual  experiences  on  his  walk  through  the  hills  of  Scotland. 
But  there  is,  as  almost  always,  not  only  the  relation  of  what  the  trav- 
eler saw  and  heard;  there  is  also  what  followed  the  sight  and  sound, 
in  the  poet's  mind.  Experience  and  reflection — that  is  Wordsworth's 
favorite  process,  and  it  is  a  process  worth  the  reader's  while  to  share. 


Introductions  and  Notes  341 

She  Was  a  Phantom  of  Delight,  stanzas,  giving  in  order,  three 
views  of  the  same  woman — his  sweetheart,  his  bride,  and  the  wife 
of  his  old  age.  Do  you  find  any  verses  dehcately  suggestive  of  Airs. 
Wordsworth's  appearance?  Any  of  her  character?  Any  one  less 
beautiful  than  the  rest? 

The  five  Sonnets  are  selected  from  many.  The  first  is  an  attempt 
on  the  part  of  the  "Lake  Poet"  to  feel  the  life  of  the  city.  Perhaps  it 
is  natural  that  it  is  the  sleeping  city  that  appeals  to  his  imagination. 
Wordsworth  and  Charles  Lamb  were  dear  friends — a  queer  pair — 
and  Lamb  understood  through  and  through  the  living  London  which 
to  Wordsworth  was  largely  a  closed  book,  while  Lamb  had  to  confess 
that  he  on  his  part  could  not  read  the  book  of  Nature. 

The  sonnet  on  IMilton  and  that  on  the  Two  Voices  of  liberty, 
belong  to  the  patriotic  period  of  Wordsworth's  life.  His  Sonnet  to 
Sleep  is  very  different  from  that  of  Sidney.  And  how  complete!}' 
The  World  is  too  Much  with  Us  illustrates  the  poet's  reverence  for 
Nature! 

It  is  one  of  the  curiosities  of  literature  that  Wordsworth  had  no  ear 
for  music, — could  not  tell  one  tune  from  another.  Yet  he  read  in  a 
musical  voice,  as  well  as  with  deep  feeling  and  earnest  thought. 
Mrs.  Hemans  says,  "When  he  reads  or  recites  in  the  open  air,  his 
deep,  rich  tones  seem  to  harmonize  with  the  thrilling  tones  of  woods 
and  waterfalls." 

SYDNEY   SMITH 

Sydney  Smith  was  a  witty  clergyman,  universally  popular,  even 
greatly  loved,  first  in  his  country  parish,  then  in  the  high  circles  of 
London  life. 

SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

Picturesque,  romantic,  friendly  yet  proud  of  his  blood,  writing 
poetry  for  love  of  the  art  and  the  local  tradition,  a  superb  horseman, 
and  a  lover  of  horses  and  of  dogs,  a  passionate  antiquarian,  the  most 
hospitable  of  entertainers,  the  most  simple  of  great  men — this  was 
the  man.  Sir  Walter.  But  to  England  in  his  time,  and  to  America, 
too,  he  was  the  "Wizard  of  the  North,"  the  writer  whose  pen  was  a 
magic  wand  wherewith  the  beauty  and  the  marvel  of  the  past  were 
made  to  live  again.  When,  in  1814,  he  turned  from  making  three 
long  narrative  poems,  Marnn'oii,  The  Lady  of  Ihe  Lake,  and  The  Lay 
of  the  Last  Minstrel,  the  name  he  had  won  would  have  contented 


342  Introductions  and  Notes 

any  other  man.  But  under  a  new  and  different  creative  impulse  he 
produced  a  series  of  novels,  mostly  Scottish  in  theme  and  color,  which 
dwarfed  his  fame  as  a  poet. 

LocHiNVAR  is  a  galloping  ballad  (though  not  in  true  ballad  metre) 
with  events,  characters,  and  dialogue  tumbling  over  one  another  so 
fast  that  the  young  bride  is  snatched  away  before  our  very  eyes. 
Do  you  catch  the  spirit  of  romance  that  stirred  Sir  Walter?  Do  you 
perceive  how  pleased  he  was  with  the  aristocratic  names  of  the  Border 
Clans? 

When  you  read  Proud  Maisie,  don't  fail  to  remember  that  people 
in  Scott's  day  pronounced  "early"  "airly."  Pronounce  it  so,  and  it 
will  rhyme  with  "rarely."  Remember  also  that  "braw  "  is  "brave," 
one  of  many  French  words  in  Scotch.  This  little  story  gets  its  pathos 
from  what  is  left  out  almost  as  much  as  from  what  is  said. 

RosABELLE  has  the  same  tragic  theme  as  Proud  Maisie, — the  death 
of  a  young  girl;  but  it  is  altogether  a  different  story,  and  told  by  a 
different  method.    Is  it  more  or  less  moving,  to  you,  than  the  other? 

This  passage  from  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  is  in  Scott's  strongest 
manner.  It  is  sincere,  compressed,  eloquent.  You  will  remember 
how  dramatically  it  is  used  by  Edward  Everett  Hale  in  his  Man  With- 
out a  Country. 

The  marching  song  of  the  "Blue  Bonnets"  is  a  lighter  song  than 
the  dead-earnest  Scots  ivha'  ha'e,  but  is  it  not  stirring  to  the  blood? 
Is  not  the  metre  in  the  first  line  a  perfect  marching  metre,  and  in  the 
second  does  it  not  break  in  sympathy  with  the  unfortunate  recruit 
who's  out  of  step?  Does  the  air  vibrate  as  you  read  it?  If  not,  read 
it  again  till  it  does.  The  consonants,  especially  the  hard  c's,  the 
rough  r's,  and  the  vigorous  b's,  are  characteristic  of  the  spirit  of  the 
leader,  and  of  the  rugged  country  and  occasion. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

To  one  who  knows  what  an  endless  talker  Coleridge  was,  his 
Epigram  on  an  epigram  must  seem  remarkable.  He  has  employed 
the  same  sort  of  cleverness  in  the  lines  which  follow,  which  illustrate, 
verse  by  verse,  the  very  feet  a£  wliich  he  is  giving  the  definition.  It 
is  a  happy  thought  also  which  represents  each  foot  as  mo\ing,  one  in 
one  rate  and  gait,  another  in  another.  Of  course  this  Metrical  Lesson 
must  be  read  aloud  to  be  appreciated,  and  really  deserves  to  be  mem- 
orized by  anyone  who  wants  to  learn  the  queer  Greek  names  for 
different  types  of  metre. 


Introductions  and  Notes  343 

The  Greek  names  for  various  metrical  feet  are  generally  interpreted 
as  follows,  a  long  mark  meaning  in  English  a  syllable  accented,  not 
necessarily  prolonged: 
Trochee  _J_   ~^ 

Spondee     /   

Dactyl  _J_   ^    v^ 
Iambus    ,^  _/_ 
Anapest    ^^    >^   _J_ 

Amphibrach    ^  '_    ^ 

Amphimacer  ^  _J_ 

His  sonnet,  Work  without  Hope,  is  a  true  reflection  of  the  terrible 
sadness  of  Coleridge's  life,  that  tragedy  self-wrought,  but  dragging 
others  in  its  ruin  through  the  use  of  opium. 

KuBLA  Khan.  There  is  an  ancient  Greek  legend  which  will  help  in 
the  study  of  this  poem, — the  legend  of  the  river  Alpheus.  This 
river  of  southern  Greece  does  actually  disappear  into  the  sand  of 
Olvmpia.  It  is  also  true  that  there  is  a  noble  fountain  in  the  island 
of  Sicily.  To  the  Greek  imagination  the  fountain  is  the  river  re- 
appearing. Coleridge  locates  his  pleasure  dome  on  the  river  as  it 
flows  through  its  "Caverns  measureless  to  man,"  and  you  will  see, 
when  you  reach  Shelley,  that  other  uses  were  made  of  the  legend  by 
other  poets.  The  legend  may  have  for  everybody  this  symbolic 
meaning — the  triumphant  rise  of  Greek  literature,  art,  and  science, 
in  Sicily,  after  war  had  crushed  it  in  Greece  proper  and  driven  it 
into  exile. 

Kiihla  Khan  was  described  by  Coleridge  himself  as  a  fragment. 
It  is  chiefly  interesting  from  having  been  written  with  great  swiftness 
as  Coleridge  came  out  from  the  influence  of  an  anodyne,  having 
dreamed  as  he  slept  of  far  more  wonders,  even,  than  are  here  set  forth; 
for  he  was  interrupted  in  his  recording  of  them  by  a  call  from  a 
prosaic  \'isitor.  Scenes  and  melodious  lines  alone  do  not  make  a  great 
poem,  but  they  do  in  this  case  reveal  a  genius  for  writing  that  should 
have  produced  many  great  poems.  The  Ancient  Mariner  is  certainly 
one. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY 

Southey  was  a  great  reader;  he  bought  so  many  books  that  he  had 
no  money  left  for  clothes;  he  was  a  great  toiler  with  his  pen,  in  both 
prose  and  poetry:  he  was  devoted  to  his  family,  his  friends,  and  the 


344  Introductions  and  Notes 

simple  pleasures  of  life;  he  loved  nonsense  and  a  merry  time,  but  was 
far  from  being  a  genius,  though  he  was  "Laureate  to  the  king." 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore  is  not  in  the  high  sense  a  poem.  Why? 
Yet  could  you  make  such  a  composition?  Is  there  any  part  of  it  that  is 
more  poetical  than  another?  Are  you  convinced  that  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  commotion  in  the  waters  of  Lodore? 

My  Days  Among  the  Dead  are  Passed,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a 
beautiful  poem,  simple,  sincere,  restrained  in  its  expression,  imagina- 
tive, true;  the  "dead"  being,  of  course,  the  authors  whose  "mighty 
minds"  he  "conversed  with  day  by  day"  in  their  precious  books. 

BLANCO  WHITE 

Blanco  White  gave  up  his  priesthood  in  the  Romish  Church  of 
Spain  and  became  an  English  Protestant.  He  was  a  writer  and  an 
editor,  but  produced  nothing  of  permanent  interest  except  the  sonnet 
To  Night.  This  one  sonnet  is  universally  thought  one  of  the  finest  in 
the  language. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

Landor  was  a  Rugby  boy.  At  sixteen  he  left  school  after  a  fierce 
quarrel  with  the  headmaster.  About  what,  do  you  think?  The 
quantity  of  a  Latin  syllable.  And  the  queerest  thing  about  the  affair 
was  that  Landor  was  right,  and  the  headmaster  wrong!  All  his  life 
he  was  contesting  something  with  somebody,  and  was  generally  right, 
too.  But  sometimes  he  was  grossly  and  absurdly  wrong,  and  finally 
he  had  to  leave  England,  and  live  in  Italy,  because  his  temper  had 
betrayed  him  into  such  lawless  violence. 

Whether  wrong  or  right,  he  was  alive  and  active  for  ninety  years. 
He  looked  like  a  lion;  his  "words  were  thunder  and  lightning;"  his 
laughter,  tremendous;  his  jokes,  affections,  and  outbursts  of  wrath, 
"Olympian;"  in  his  attitude  toward  women  he  was  chivalry  in- 
carnate. "Landor  was  above  all  an  artist  and  a  man  of  letters,  but 
there  was  an  heroic  temper  in  his  work."  There  is  humor  (uncon- 
scious), truth,  and  pathos  in  the  little  quatrain  in  which  he  summed 
up  his  own  life: 

I  strove  with  none;  for  none  was  worth  my  strife. 
Nature  I  loved,  and,  next  to  Nature,  Art. 
I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life; 
It  sinks,  and  lam  ready  to  depart. 


Introductions  and  Notes  345 


THO:\IAS  CAMPBELL 

Campbell  at  fifty  was  Lord  Rector  of  Glasgow  University.  One 
day  on  his  way  to  the  lecture-room  he  came  upon  his  class  in  the 
campus  pelting  each  other  with  snowballs.  He  joined  in  both  heartily 
and  skilfully,  and  then  led  the  students  to  the  hall  and  began  his 
address.  The  poet  spoke  broad  Scotch,  wrote  with  great  slowness 
and  diffidence,  devoted  himself  to  the  cause  of  any  unfortunate  people, 
especially  the  Poles,  and,  like  many  of  his  poetical  contemporaries,  is 
said  to  have  had  no  ear  for  music.  What  is  the  evidence  of  his  lyrics 
on  this  point? 

Hohenlinden  was  not  far  from  Munich.  Here  the  Austrians  (Huns) 
lost  a  great  battle  to  the  French  (Franks).  Campbell  visited  the 
scene  soon  after. 

THO^LVS  MOORE 

"Tom  Moore,"  as  he  was  affectionately  called,  was  an  Irishman 
who  made  his  home  in  London;  wrote  songs,  mostly  Irish,  altogether 
sentimental;  and  sang  them  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  London's  society 
ladies  in  a  way  that  was  greatly  moving  to  an  Early  Victorian  com- 
pany. Moore,  himself,  was  sometimes  so  affected  by  his  own  per- 
formance, as  to  break  down  and  burst  into  tears.  As  a  man,  he  had  a 
harmless  vanity  that  was  not  displeasing;  as  a  conversationalist,  he 
was  graceful  and  witty;  as  a  writer  of  prose,  he  was  known,  for  his 
excellent  lives  of  Lord  Byron  and  Thomas  Brinsley  Sheridan. 

Moore's  songs,  like  other  songs,  reveal  much  of  their  beauty  only 
when  read  aloud  or  sung.  The  melodies  of  almost  all  Moore's  songs 
are  his  own.  How  appropriate  they  were  may  be  judged  from  the 
most  familiar  of  them  all,  — The.  Last  Rose  of  Summer.  His  music  for 
Believe  me  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms  is  known  to  us  all  as 
the  tune  of  Fair  Harvard. 

Tara's  Halls  were  on  Tara's  Ilill,  not  far  from  Dublin,  the  tradi- 
tional abode  of  the  Irish  kings. 

JANE  TAYLOR 

Jane  Taylor  was  a  member  of  a  peculiar  family.  It  was  a  common 
saying  among  the  neighbors,  that  any  Taylor  could  write  poetry. 
Jane  and  her  sister  Ann  did  not  attain  as  much  prominence  as  their 
brother  Isaac,  but  their  work  has  lasted  and  his  is  forgotten.  Twinkle, 
Twinkle,  Utile  Star,  for  example,  is  a  very  tiny  classic,  but  it  will 
shine  on  forever. 


346 


Introductions  and  Notes 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM 


Anyone  else  had  as  much  right  as  Allan  Cunningham  to  expect  to 
write  an  English  sea-song  which  should  live.  He  was  a  Scotch 
stonemason — but  he  became  a  poet. 

LEIGH  HUNT 

When  Leigh  Hunt  was  a  schoolboy,  his  prose  themes  were  so  bad 
that  the  master  used  to  crumple  them  up  in  his  hand,  and  throw 
them  to  the  boys  for  their  amusement.  Not  a  very  promising  begin- 
ning for  a  literary  career!  Yet  he  became  a  successful  man  of  letters, 
and  throughout  a  long  life  was  as  much  enjoyed  as  a  companion  and 
loved  as  a  friend  as  any  other  man  in  England.  Fancy  him — very  tall 
and  straight,  with  face  long  and  highly  expressive,  and  hair  black 
and  plentiful.  He  was  still  the  same  at  eighty,  except  that  his  hair 
had  laecome  snowy  white.  To  the  end  of  his  life  he  was  cheery,  com- 
panionable, unpractical,  and  a  walker  who  thought  nothing  of  twenty 
miles.  He  was  the  best  of  friends  to  Keats,  and  to  many,  many  other 
men  of  letters. 

The  Glove  and  the  Lions  had  its  model  in  Schiller's  poem  telling 
the  same  story;  and  it  became  in  turn,  the  model  for  Browning  to 
follow^  with  his  own  kind  of  humor,  in  The  Glove. 

BARRY  CORNWALL 

Barry  Cornwall  was  very  handy  with  his  fists.  He  made  a  name  in 
the  pugilistic  art  while  at  Harrow,  and  afterward  went  on  a  journey  to 
meet  the  "  Game  Chicken,"  a  well-known  professional  boxer.  But  he 
was  noted  during  his  long  life  for  gentleness  rather  than  pugnacity, 
and  for  an  extraordinary  tender  sympathy  for  all  whom  he  could  serve. 
"No  one  who  has  passed  an  hour  in  the  company  of  Charles  Lamb's 
'  dear  boy '  can  ever  lose  the  impression  made  upon  him  by  that  simple, 
sincere,  shy  and  delicate  soul"  {Coventry  Patniorc). 

GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON 

Byron's  character  and  manners  have  been  portrayed  by  various 
friends  and  enemies  so  variously  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  fix  the 
mind  upon  a  composite  portrait  and  call  that  the  true  Lord  Byron; 


Introductions  and  Notes  347 

for  it  is  evident  that  "both  the  censure  and  the  praise  are  merited." 
He  was  brave,  magnanimous  and  gracious,  but  also  superstitious, 
petty,  and  vain.  He  had  tremendous  passions,  both  good  and  vicious, 
such  conceit  as  to  destroy  his  sense  of  humor,  but  flashes  of  patriotism 
and  other  noble  sentiments  as  brilliant  as  the  dazzling  verse  in  which 
he  meets  our  eye.  He  was  a  lover  of  horses,  and  an  expert  swimmer, 
though  with  a  deformed  foot.  His  face  had  a  beauty  and  his  e.x- 
pression  a  charm  recognized  by  friends  and  foes  alike.  A  story  of 
his  school  days  at  Harrow  will  serve  to  illustrate  the  disposition  of 
the  man. 

"While  Lord  Byron  and  Mr.  Peel  were  at  Harrow  together,  a 
tyrant  some  few  years  older  .  .  .  claimed  a  right  to  fag  little  Peel, 
which  claim  (whether  rightly  or  wrongly  I  know  not)  Peel  resisted. 

His  resistance,  however,  was  in  vain; not  only  subdued  him,  but 

determined  also  to  punish  the  refractory  slave;  and  proceeded  forth- 
with to  put  his  determination  in  practice,  by  inflicting  a  kind  of 
bastinado  on  the  inner  fleshy  side  of  the  boy's  arm,  which,  during  the 
operation,  was  twisted  around  with  some  degree  of  technical  skill,  to 
render  the  pain  more  acute.  While  the  stripes  were  succeeding  each 
other  and  poor  Peel  writhing  under  them,  Byron  saw  and  felt  for  the 
misery  of  his  friend;  and  although  he  knew  that  he  was  not  strong 
enough  to  fight  with  any  hope  of  success,  and  that  it  was  dangerous 

even  to  approach ,  he  advanced  to  the  scene  of  action,  and  with  a 

blush  of  rage,  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  a  voice  trembling  between  terror 

and  indignation  asked  very  humbly  if would  be  pleased  to  tell 

him,  "how  many  stripes  he  meant  to  inflict."  "Why,"  returned  the 
executioner,  "you  little  rascal,  what  is  that  to  j'ou?"  "Because,  if 
you  please,"  said  Byron,  "I  would  take  half." 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib.    Look  up  the  Biblical  account 
in  II  Chronicles,  xxxii,  2,  for  the  best  story;  and  II  Kings,  xix,  35,  for 
the  most  startling. 
Ashur,  Assyria. 

The  E\^e  of  Waterloo.  This  selection  and  the  following  one  are 
taken  from  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  the  story  of  a  childe,  or  prince, 
on  a  search  through  the  world  for  adventure  and  experience.  The  Eve 
of  Waterloo  and  The  Ocean  both  reveal  the  traveler's  interest  in  nature 
and  in  humanity;  but  nature  is  emphasized  in  one  passage,  and  human 
nature  in  the  other. 

She  Walks  in  Beauty,  I  like  to  think,  shows  Byron  at  his  purest 
and  best.  It  is  one  of  a  series  of  beautiful  lyrics  entitled  Hebrew 
Melodies. 


348  Introductions  and  Notes 

On  Chillo.v,  if  compared  with  Lovelace's  To  AUhca  will  yield  a 
clear  view  of  several  points  in  which  the  poets  differed,  and  the  ages  in 
which  they  lived.  Chillon  is  a  name  to  stir  the  heart  of  any  man  who 
hates  fetters — of  soul  or  body. 


CHARLES  WOLFE 

Wolfe  was  a  gifted  Irish  clergyman.  Sir  John  Moore  died  in  Jan- 
uary, 180Q,  after  a  victorious  skirmish  with  the  French  at  Corunna, 
a  fortified  city  on  the  Northwestern  coast  of  Spain. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Shelley,  when  he  was  a  boy,  had  a  passion  for  chemistry,  for  climb- 
ing high  and  perilous  places,  and  for  sailing  paper  boats.  Once,  hav- 
ing at  hand  no  other  material,  he  made  a  boat  of  a  fifty-pound  note. 
Fortunately  after  an  eventful  voyage  the  costly  craft  was  brought 
safe  to  shore.  When  he  was  interested  in  study  or  in  writing,  he  for- 
got to  eat  or  sleep,  and  when  he  was  in  danger,  as  of  drowning,  he 
was  devoid  of  all  sense  of  fear.  He  wouldn't  put  up  with  coarseness  or 
bullying  in  anyone  about  him,  either  in  college  or  in  later  life;  and  his 
generosity  was  unparalleled,  even  in  a  society  of  generous  men.  He 
and  Leigh  Hunt  were  intimate  friends.  Landor,  who  knew  him  well, 
says:  "Innocent  and  careless  as  a  boy,  he  possessed  all  the  delicate 
feelings  of  a  gentleman,  all  the  discrimination  of  a  scholar,  and  united, 
in  just  degrees,  the  ardor  of  the  poet  with  the  patience  and  forbear- 
ance of  the  philosopher.  His  generosity  and  charity  went  far  beyond 
those  of  any  man  (I  believe)  at  present  in  existence.  He  was  never 
known  to  speak  evil  of  any  enemy,  unless  that  enemy  had  done  some 
grievous  injustice  to  another;  and  he  divided  his  income  of  only  one 
thousand  pounds  with  the  fallen  and  the  afflicted.  This  is  the  man 
against  whom  such  clamors  have  been  raised  by  the  religious  and  the 
loyal,  and  by  those  who  live  and  lap  under  their  tables." 

"As  a  lyric  poet,  Shelley,  on  his  own  ground,  is  easily  great.  Some 
of  the  lyrics  are  purely  personal;  some,  as  in  the  very  finest,  the  Ode 
to  the  West  Wind,  mingle  together  personal  feeling  and  prophetic 
hope  for  mankind.  Some  are  lyrics  of  pure  nature;  some  are  dedi- 
cated to  the  rebuke  of  tyranny  and  the  cause  of  liberty;  others  belong 
to  the  indefinite  passion  he  called  lo\e,  and  others  are  written  on 
visions  of  those  shapes  that  haunt  Thought's  wildernesses.    They 


Introductions  and  Notes  349 

form  together  the  most  sensitive,  the  most  imaginative,  and  the  most 
musical,  but  the  least  tangible  lyrical  poetry  we  possess." 

"He  wants  the  closeness  of  grasp  of  nature  which  Wordsworth 
and  Keats  had,  but  he  had  the  power  in  a  far  greater  degree  than 
they  of  describing  the  cloud-scenery  of  the  sky,  the  doings  of  the  great 
sea,  and  vast  realms  of  landscape.  He  is  in  this,  as  well  as  in  his  eye 
for  subtle  colour,  the  Turner  of  poetry.  What  he  might  have  been 
we  cannot  tell,  for  at  the  age  of  thirty  he  left  us,  drowned  in  the  sea 
he  loved,  washed  up  and  burned  on  the  sandy  spits  near  Pisa.  His 
ashes  lie  beneath  the  walls  of  Rome,  and  Cor  Corditim,  '  Heart  of 
Hearts,'  written  on  his  tomb,  well  says  what  all  who  love  poetry  feel 
when  they  think  of  him." 

To  A  Skylark  should  be  read  for  its  music  and  its  mounting  fancies; 
not,  like  some  other  poems,  for  its  meaning  to  the  intellect,  so  much  as 
for  its  sensuous  beaut\',  beauty  of  sight  and  sound,  and  for  the  chance 
it  gives  everybody  to  forget  earth,  for  once,  and  "float  and  run  like  an 
embodied  joy  "  in  a  new  element,  the  air.  It  should  divide  with  The 
Clojid,  which  follows,  the  honor  of  being  the  favorite  poem  of  all  air- 
pilots.  The  Cloud  has  been  called  by  a  discerning  critic  the  "most 
gorgeous  poem  in  the  English  language." 

Arethusa  is  the  Fountain  loved  by  Alpheus,  the  Arcadian  river 
Tvhich  we  followed  underground  in  Kiihla  Khan.  Enna's  mountains 
are  in  Sicily.  If  you  wish  to  draw  comparisons  between  a  perfect 
work  of  art  and  what  is  called  a  tour  de  force,  set  Arethusa  and 
Southey's  Lodore  side  by  side. 

OzYMANDiAS  has  more  pictorial  power  than  many  a  poem  of  ten 
times  its  length.  In  reading  it  remember  that  the  verb  survive  has 
two  grammatical  objects,  ha)id  and  heart,  in  the  following  verse. 
;  Ode  to  the  West  Wind.  This  is  metrically  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting of  poems.  It  is  an  example  of  an  Italian  form  called  tcrza  rima. 
Observe  how  the  second  verse  of  every  stanza  introduces  a  rhyme 
which  becomes  dominant  in  the  following  stanza. 

In  its  e.xaltation  and  its  cries  of  pain  and  hope,  this  Ode  is  more  than 
merely  a  sincere  expression  of  a  passing  mood;  it  is  the  soul  of  Shelley, 
confessing,  aspiring,  and  almost  communing — a  strange  occupation 
for  a  young  man  who  had  been  expelled  from  college  as  an  atheist. 

MRS.  HEMANS 

By  no  means  a  great  poet,  Mrs.  Hemans  wrote  over  twelve  hun- 
Jred  octavo  pages — plays,  occasional  verse,  translations  from  many 


350  Introductions  and  Notes 

tongues,  and  much  poetry  of  the  so-called  didactic  variety, — that 
which  teaches  a  lesson. 

Casablanca  was  Napoleon's  Admiral  of  the  Orient.  At  the  Battle 
of  the  Nile,  mortally  wounded,  he  gave  orders  for  his  ship  to  be 
blown  up  rather  than  captured  by  Nelson.  "The  Boy"  was  thirteen 
years  old. 

JOHN  KEATS 

Shelley's  life  was  shorter  than  Byron's;  but  Keats's  was  shorter  than 
Shelley's.  Moreover,  his  origin  was  so  humble  that  we  must  be  sur- 
prised that  one  could  build  so  high  in  so  few  years  from  so  low  founda- 
tions. Shelley  and  Byron  had  blood,  family  traditions,  and  education 
on  their  side;  Keats  largely  lacked  them  all,  and  health  as  well. 

Leigh  Hunt,  his  friend,  wrote,  "Keats,  when  he  died,  had  just  com- 
pleted his  five-and-twentieth  year.  He  was  under  the  middle  height; 
and  his  lower  limbs  were  small  in  comparison  with  the  upper,  but 
neat  and  well-turned.  His  shoulders  were  very  broad  for  his  size; 
he  had  a  face  in  which  energy  and  sensibility  were  remarkably  mixed 
up:  an  eager  power,  checked  and  made  patient  by  ill  health.  Every 
feature  was  at  once  strongly  cut,  and  delicately  alive.  If  there  was 
any  faulty  expression  it  was  in  the  mouth,  which  was  not  without 
something  of  a  character  of  pugnacity.  The  face  was  rather  long  than 
otherwise;  the  upper  lip  projected  a  little  over  the  under;  the  chin  was 
bold,  the  cheeks  sunken;  the  eyes  mellow  and  glowing;  large,  dark, 
and  sensitive.  At  the  recital  of  a  noble  action,  or  a  beautiful  thought, 
they  would  suffuse  with  tears,  and  his  mouth  trembled.  In  this 
there  was  ill  health  as  well  as  imagination,  for  he  did  not  like  these 
betrayals  of  emotion;  and  he  had  great  personal  as  well  as  moral 
courage.  He  once  chastised  a  butcher,  who  had  been  insolent,  by 
a  regular  stand-up  fight.  His  hair,  of  a  brown  color,  was  fine,  and  hung 
in  natural  ringlets." 

The  Mermaid  Tavern  was  the  resort  of  Shakspere,  Ben  Jonson, 
and  the  great  though  lesser  wits  of  their  acquaintance. 

The  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket  was  written  in  a  spirit  of 
competition  vvith  Leigh  Hunt's.    Which  should  you  call  the  winner? 


HARTLEY   COLERIDGE 

Hartley  Coleridge  was  the  son  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  and 
therefore  it  is  not  surprising  to  find  him,  on  one  hand,  a  highly  gifted 


Introductions  and  Notes  351 

writer,  and  on  the  other,  a  pathetic  figure,  botli  physically  and  mor- 
ally; for  he  inherited  not  only  the  genius  of  his  father  but  his  morbid 
desire  for  stimulants. 

WILLIAM   MOTHERWELL 

A  Scottish  editor,  who  wrote  a  volume  or  two  of  poems.  How  does 
The  Cavalier's  Song  compare  with  Browning's,  in  degree  of  reality? 
Which  would  be  more  likely  to  stir  the  blood  and  make  for  the  suc- 
cess of  the  cause? 

SAMUEL  LOVER 

A  clever  Irishman,  who  had  success  in  three  lines  of  art;  he  painted 
good  portraits  and  wrote  readable  novels  and  verse.  I  wonder  whether 
he  is  half  as  well  known  as  his  oft  quoted  character,  Rory  O'Moore. 

THOMAS  HOOD 

Tom  Hood  was  a  great  practical  joker — one  who  could  perpetrate 
jokes  amusing  even  to  the  victim.  There  was  no  end  to  his  cheerful- 
ness, as  the  following  incident  will  prove :  "  In  his  last  illness,  reduced, 
as  he  was,  to  a  skeleton,  he  noticed  a  large  mustard-plaster  which 
Mrs.  Hood  was  making  for  him,  and  exclaimed, "  O,  Mary,  Mary,  that 
will  be  a  great  deal  of  mustard  to  a  very  little  meat!"  His  very  last 
joke  is  said  to  have  been  an  expression  of  satisfaction  that  he  was  at 
last  "helping  the  undertaker  to  earn  a  liveli-hood." 

He  was  a  man  of  exquisite  taste  and  deep  sentiment;  fond  of  chil- 
dren and  children's  fun;  generous  and  tender  to  a  fault  towards  those 
in  pain  or  poverty;  and  brave  and  cheery  in  his  acceptance  of  these 
calamities  when  they  befell  himself.  His  wit  was  free  from  bitterness, 
his  humor  unfailing,  irresistible,  and  accompanied  by  true  pathos. 

Ruth  is  a  beautiful  poem  partly  because  the  Book  of  Ruth  in  the 
Bible  is  so  beautiful. 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY 

Macaulay  was  one  of  the  most  gifted  and  versatile  Englishmen  of 
the  19th  century.  He  crowded  into  less  than  sixty  years  an  immense 
amount  of  writing,  both  prose  and  poetry,  eminent  services  to  the 
State,  and  a  daily  life  full  of  "deeds  of  kindness  and  of  love  "  to  liis 
family  and  his  friends.    He  was  the  brilliant  debater  of  the  House  of 


352  Introductions  and  Notes 

Commons,  a  tireless  conversationalist  who  never  lacked  fascinating 
material  on  any  subject,  and  the  creator  of  a  style  which  has  been  and 
still  is,  in  some  respects,  the  most  admirable  in  all  English  prose. 
There  is  no  greater  master  of  the  English  sentence  or  the  English 
paragraph.  Of  course,  ISIacaulay's  greatest  claim  to  eminence  as  a 
writer  lies  in  the  extent  and  interest  of  his  biographical  and  historical 
works;  but  you  remember  Landor's  lines  about  him  as  a  poet,  on 
page  149. 

As  a  poet,  his  chief  excellence  consists  in  the  vigor  and  swift  move- 
ment of  his  tales  of  heroic  action.  The  most  famous,  The  Lays  of 
Ancient  Rome,  portray  the  heroic  spirit  of  the  Roman  Republic  in 
verse  not  unlike  the  traditional  verse  of  the  English  ballad. 

In  IvRY,  the  ballad  lines  are  written  in  their  original  form, — coup- 
lets of  seven  beats.  In  the  battle  of  Ivry,  Henry  of  Navarre  fought 
with  small  numbers,  insufficient  supplies,  even  food;  but  with  a 
cheerfulness  and  courage  which  made  him  king  of  France.  His  cry, 
"Rally  around  my  white  plume,"  was  as  effective  in  the  battle  of 
Ivry,  as  Nelson's  famous  signal  at  Trafalgar. 

CARDINAL  NEWMAN 

Newman  is  one  of  the  few  greatest  masters  of  English  prose.  He 
was  great  also  as  a  scholar  and  theologian.  This  hymn  of  his,  so  well 
known  yet  so  unworn,  is  suggestive  of  the  great  religious  struggle  of 
his  life,  as  a  result  of  which  he  definitely  put  aside  all  intellectual 
doubts,  and  embraced  Faith  as  "the  evidence  of  things  not  seen" 
by  entering  the  Roman  Catholic  communion,  where  he  eventually 
became  a  cardinal.  In  the  things  of  the  intellect,  however,  as  con- 
trasted with  those  of  the  spirit,  Newman  was  to  the  last  the  most 
formidable  debater  in  the  age  of  intellectual  giants, — the  age  of 
Herbert  Spencer,  Huxley,  Tyndall,  and  Darwin,  to  mention  a  few  of 
the  eminent  scientists  only. 

MRS.  BROWNING 

Elizabeth  Barrett,  secluded  and  invalid  daughter  of  an  English 
gentleman  of  wealth,  wrote  herself  into  Robert  Browning's  heart, 
and  read  him  into  her  own,  even  before  cither  had  seen  the  other. 
Then  they  met,  followed  their  romantic  attachment  with  a  romantic 
marriage,  and  that  with  a  long  life  together  of  wedded  joy  in  sunny 
Italy.    The  three  Sonnets  given  here  are  selected  from  her  series  of 


Introductions  and  Notes  353 

forty-four,  written  to  her  lover,  given  shyly  to  him  after  their  mar- 
riage, by  him  entitled  Souncts  jrom  the  Portuguese  and  published  as 
"translations."  These  three  are  numbers  one,  fourteen,  and  forty- 
two  of  the  series.  A  Court  Lady  shows  how  sympathetically  Airs. 
Browning  entered  into  the  life  of  her  Italian  friends. 


TENNYSON 

Tennyson  followed  Wordsworth  as  Laureate.  His  works  manifest 
not  only  genius  but  extraordinary  cultivation — in  science,  history, 
legends,  social  problems,  religion, — all  infused  with  the  truest  national 
sympathy  and  the  loftiest  idealism.  Superadded  to  all  these  traits 
and  powers  was  the  most  varied  and  masterly  gift  of  expression  and 
an  art  which  found  no  exertion  too  hard,  and  no  aim  too  high;  which 
neglected  no  detail  of  content  or  form;  which  wrought  precious  words 
into  the  most  exquisite  melody,  grace,  and  power. 

Break,  Break,  Break  is  a  quiet  but  touching  lament  for  the  loss  of 
his  dearest  friend — Arthur  Henry  Hallam.  It  was  for  Hallam  also 
that  Tennyson  wrote  his  greatest  poem.  In  Mcmoriam. 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  at  Balaclava  was  on  the  Rus- 
sians. Balaclava  is  a  city  of  the  Crimea,  the  great  peninsula  which 
extends  down  into  the  Black  Sea.  It  was  once,  in  the  days  of  Ulysses, 
the  city  of  the  Laestrygonians,  and  its  harbor  is  well  described  by 
Homer  in  the  Odyssey. 

The  Higher  Pantheism  is  called  higher  in  contrast  with  that 
of  the  simple  shepherds  and  goatherds  who  worshipped  Pan  in  ancient 
Greece  as  the  God  of  Nature. 

A  Tribute  to  his  Mother  is  taken  from  the  closing  canto  of 
the  Princess,  where  Prince  and  Princess  have  become  reconciled  and 
aware  of  their  deep  need  for  each  other.  The  Prince's  ideal  of  woman 
was  inspiring  to  Princess  Ida,  who  had  hitherto  attempted  a  mannish 
r61e.  It  is  also  good  for  us  to  have  such  an  ideal  described  in  these 
daj'S,  when  the  place  of  woman  in  the  world  is  being  determined  anew. 
It  is  an  interesting  passage  to  compare  with  Wordsworth's  She  was  a 
Fhantom  of  Delight,  and  with  Byron's  She  Walks  in  Beauty. 


THACKERAY 

England's  greatest  novelist  wrote  verses  as  he  drew  pictures — for 
love, — love  of  fun,  and  love  of  people. 


354  Introductions  and  Notes 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

To  the  eye  of  the  reader  it  would  appear  that  Browning  laid  less 
emphasis  on  mere  beauty  of  form  in  poetry  than  Tennyson,  more 
on  its  spirit  and  substance.  The  result  of  this  impression  is  that 
Tennyson  seems  as  an  artist  greater  than  Browning.  But  when  one 
has  broken  through  the  crust  of  Browning's  style — abrupt,  vigorous, 
outspoken,  half-spoken, — one  may  be  more  often  moved  and  more 
deeply  moved  than  by  Tennyson's  smoother  art.  Each  of  these 
great  masters  had  his  own  view  of  what  constituted  art.  Something 
of  the  contrast  may  be  seen  by  studying  together  Tennyson's  Crossing 
The  Bar  and  Browning's  Prospicc  or  {The  Epilogue  to  "Asolando"), 
each  a  poem  which  deals  with  the  thought  of  the  poet  himself  about 
the  end  of  earthly  life,  and  the  continuance  of  life  beyond  the  grave. 
Browning  is  one  of  the  manliest  of  poets — in  his  courage,  his  frank- 
ness, and  his  passion  both  of  admiration  and  of  scorn;  and  in  his  own 
free  and  radical  style  he  is  a  great  artist — one  of  the  Olympians. 

Pheidippides.   The  Greek  motto  means,  Rejoice,  we  conquer!   The 
first  stanza  is  an  invocation  to  Pan,  the  God  of  Nature. 
Daemons,  spirits. 

Ye  of  the  bow  and  buskin,  Phoebus  and  Artemis. 
tettix,  a  gold  grasshopj^er  which  each  archon  wore  as  a  sign  of  his 
office  as  one  of  the  rulers  of  Athens.  The  pride  of  the  archon  arose 
from  his  being  a  nati\e-born  Athenian.     Like  the  grasshopper, 
he  had  sprung  from  the  soil  (look  up  autochthon  in  the  Standard 
Dictionary). 
Cavalier  Tuxes.    Note  how  the  metre  tramps  into  the  inn  in  the 
first  song,  stops  to  revel  in  loyalty  in  the  second,  and  then  gallops  off 
in  the  third.    The  spirit  of  these  songs  is  what  makes  them  worth 
reading.    Details  such  as  words  and  allusions  are  of  far  less  relative 
importance  than  usual. 

My  Last  Duchess,  the  most  awful  self-conviction  possible  for  the 
complacent,  proud,  flint-hearted  Duke.  He  is  the  embodiment  of 
elegance  and  breeding,  artistic  taste  and  business  shrewdness.  But 
the  motive  in  all  is  self-love.  How  curious  it  is  that  after  all,  the 
better  we  know  the  Duke,  the  easier  it  is  for  us  to  forget  him,  and 
think  only  of  his  beautiful  wife,  who  was  as  unselfish  and  lovable  as 
woman  could  be. 

Tray  is  a  plea  against  vivisection.  Browning  loved  all  animals, 
but  especially  dogs  and  horses. 


Introductions  and  Notes  355 


EDWARD  LEAR 

Lear  was  the  first  great  English  writer  of  nonsense  rhymes.  Ruskin 
placed  Lear's  Nonsense  Book  at  the  head  of  his  "One  Hundred  Great- 
est Books.".  Of  course  this  honor  was  paid  to  the  entertaining  and 
refreshing  powers  of  the  book — its  funny  verses  and  pictures,  not  to 
anything  that  is  ordinarily  recognized  as  great  poetry  or  art. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 

Friend  of  Tennyson,  and  Hallam,  and  especially  of  Matthew 
Arnold,  who  succeeded  him  in  the  chair  of  poetry  at  Oxford;  friend 
also  of  Longfellow  and  his  fellow-workers  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
for  he  was  resident  at  Cambridge  for  several  years. 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY 

Kingsley  was  a  great  man  who  took  pleasure  in  childlike  fun  and 
simple  good-feeling.  One  would  hardly  guess  the  great  novelist  or 
social  reformer,  from  his  Water  Babies. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Matthew  Arnold  was  the  famous  son  of  the  famous  Dr.  Thomas 
Arnold,  headmaster  of  Rugby.  JMost  of  his  poems  are  too  serious  or 
too  diflicult  for  young  readers.  But  there  are  exceptions,  as  Sohrab 
and  Rustiim,  which  is  often  read  by  schoolboys.  Arnold  was  a  scholar, 
critic,  lecturer,  and  expert  on  education.  His  services  to  the  schools 
and  universities  of  England  were  invaluable.  He  was  long  inspector 
of  the  schools  of  England,  doing  all  in  his  power  to  make  popular 
education  sound  and  attractive,  and  he  was  for  thirty  years  Professor 
of  English  Poetry  at  Oxford. 

COVENTRY  PATMORE 

Coventry  Patmore  was  a  widely  known  writer  of  both  prose  and 
verse,  and  he  was  twenty-two  years  one  of  the  librarians  in  the  British 
Museum, 


3S6 


Introductions  and  Notes 


LEWIS  CARROLL 


Lineal  descendant,  as  humorist,  of  Edward  Lear.  He  is  best 
known  by  his  two  "Alice"  books — Alice  in  Wonderland,  and  Through 
the  Looking  Glass,  stories  which  he  wrote  for  real  live  children  whom 
he  loved,  but  which  are  read,  remembered,  quoted,  and  enjoyed, 
every  day,  by  grown-up  women  and  men  in  England  and  in  America 
too.  By  his  real  name,  Charles  L.  Dodgson,  he  was  known  as  a  great 
mathematician. 

GEORGE  DU  MAURIER 

This  clever  half-Frenchman  brought  to  bear  on  the  pages  of  Punch 
the  perennial  rays  of  his  wit  and  humor,  not  only  in  the  quaintest 
and  most  entertaining  of  clean  jokes,  but  in  the  incomparable  pic- 
tures he  drew  to  match  them.  When  he  was  old  and  growing  blind,  he 
surprised  the  world  at  large  by  producing  the  most  widely  discussed 
novel  of  its  decade — Trilby. 

EDWARD  BOWEN 

Distinguished  not  as  a  poet,  but  as  a  schoolmaster.  Yet,  teaching 
at  Harrow  for  forty  years,  he  wrote  for  the  boys  and  men  of  that  great 
school  the  greatest  of  all  school  songs — Forty  Years  On,  the  song 
which  is  known  as  the  Harrow  National  .Anthem.  And  this  was  only 
one  of  many  good  songs,  and  they  were  as  fortunately  set  to  music  by 
the  great  organist  and  comj^oser,  John  Farmer,  whose  term  of  service 
at  Harrow  largely  coincided  with  Edward  Bowen's.  Bowen  was  re- 
markable in  many  ways,  but  in  none  more  than  his  participation  in 
the  football  games  of  the  school  up  to  the  last  year  of  his  life.  He 
died  of  heart-disease,  while  he  was  making  his  annual  bicycle-trip 
of  research  on  one  of  the  battle-fields  of  Europe.  The  country  in 
which  Cffisar's  campaigns  were  waged  was  the  object  of  Bowen's 
special  interest,  and  his  knowledge  of  it  was  so  intimate  that  the 
Commentaries  became,  in  his  class  room,  a  lising  narrative. 


AUSTIN  DOBSON 

There  is  a  rare  spirit  in  these  three  selections — gentleness,  delicacy, 
wit,  heroism,  all  finding  expression  in  lines  that  exquisitely  suggest 
the  Frcnchiness  and  quaintness  of  certain  verse  of  the  Seventeenth 
Century,  called  vers  de  sociele. 


Introductions  and  Notes  357 

The  Curb's  Progress  describes  the  morning  walk  of  a  village 

priest  humble  in  station  but  sweet  and  large  in  spirit. 

grande  place,  the  big  square. 

Hotel  de  Ville,  the  town  hall. 

fleuriste,  flower-girl. 

pompier,  fireman. 

marche,  market. 

pain  d'epice,  gingerbread. 

Merchant  of  fruit,  transliterates  Marchand  de  fruit,  which  Dobson 
evidently  expects  the  reader  to  supply,  to  rhyme  with  the  second 
line  below. 

Ma  foi,  oui,  my  faith,  yes. 

Bon  Dieu  garde  M'sieu,  May  the  good  God  care  for  Monsieur! 

Sous  Prefet,  Deputy  Police-Magistrate. 

Urceus  Exit,  It  turned  out  a  jug.  Here  is  a  note  by  Mr.  Robinson, 
the  Latin  Master  of  Laurenceville:  "At  the  beginning  of  the  Ars 
Poetica,  Horace  objects  to  excessive  freedom  of  the  artistic  imag- 
ination, and  argues  that  a  work  should  be  consistent  with  itself. 
He  shows  the  absurdity  of  combining  serpents  with  birds,  and 
lambs  with  tigers,  and  continues — Amphora  ccepit  inslilui,  cur- 
rente  rota  cur  urceus  exit!"'  (A  Greek  vase  begins  to  be  shaped; 
wh\',  as  the  wheel  turns,  should  it  come  out  a  common  jug? 
An  ode  was  intended,  and  it  came  out  a  sonnet.') 

WILLIAM  MORRIS 

Morris  was  one  of  a  group  of  young  men,  living  in  or  near  London, 
who  sought  to  raise  standards  of  living  and  of  taste  to  the  simplicity 
and  beauty  of  their  dreams.  He  invented  the  "Morris  Chair";  led 
interesting  enterprises  in  the  manufacture  of  household  furniture 
and  decorations,  and  in  printing;  preached  a  powerful  socialism;  and 
wrote  much  poetry  of  a  vigorous  but  melancholy  quality  which  con- 
cerned itself  largely  with  legends  of  the  heroic  pagans  of  Northern 
Lands.  Th<;  life  of  Morris  was  full  to  the  brim  with  interesting  ac- 
ti\ities,  and  hi j  ser\ices  to  English  life  in  his  day  were  not  only  great 
but  thoroughly  wholesome. 

WILLIAM  HEXLEY 

Henley  was  an  editor,  a  critic,  a  poet,  a  friend  of  Stevenson's,  and 
a  man  of  vigor  and  intellect,  but  given  to  strong  prejudices,  even  to 
bitterness. 


158  Introductions  and  Notes 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Stevenson  was  a  lifelong  and  heroic  invalid,  a  cheerful  and  inspiring 
friend  to  many  different  kinds  of  j^eople,  a  great  artist  in  prose,  and  a 
sweet  singer  in  verse. 

WILLIAM   WATSON 

One  of  the  most  notable  living  poets  of  Great  Britain. 

HENRY   NEWBOLT 

Among  contemporary  poets,  Newbolt  is  distinguished  for  variety, 
elegance,  truth  of  fact  and  feeling,  and  reverence  and  tenderness  of 
spirit.    These  qualities  of  mind,  joined  with  a  flexible  and  painstaking 
art,  should  spell  greatness. 
Qui  procul  hiiic,  qui  ante  diem 
Pcriit;  sed  miles,  scd  pro  patria. 

Who  died  far  from  here  and  before  his  time,  but  as  a  soldier  should, 
for  his  country. 

RUDYARD   KIPLING 

Born  in  India,  inheriting  an  artistic  nature,  deriving  from  his 
surroundings  a  sense  of  the  imperial  greatness  of  England,  traveling 
widely  and  observing  keenly,  entering  deeply  into  the  enthusiasms 
and  prejudices  of  many  classes  of  men,  Kipling  finally  became  the 
amateur  spokesman  of  the  consciousness  of  the  British  Empire.  As 
no  other  man  has  done,  he  has  taught  the  parts  of  the  Empire  to 
know  one  another,  and  in  some  degree  he  has  taught  the  Empire 
to  know  itself. 

Recessional.  Victoria's  week  of  Diamond  Jubilee  was  over,  and 
the  glories  which  had  filled  London  with  oratory  and  'the  pomp  of 
power  "  were  fading,  when  in  the  columns  of  the  Timei  appeared, 
with  the  modesty  of  filial  devotion,  these  inspired  lines,  at  once  a 
glorious  tribute  to  the  magnificence  of  British  power  and  a  plea  to 
Britain  to  lay  that  power  at  the  feet  of  God. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD 

The  most  obvious  i)ower  of  this  new  English  poet  is  the  power  to 
tell  a  story  in  verse  so  vividly  that  the  reader  forgets  the  words  and 


Introductions  and  Notes  359 

thinks  only  of  the  actions  and  the  feelings  of  the  characters.  But 
this  is  not  his  only  gift.  He  has  made  beautiful  poems  of  description 
and  reflection,  a  volume  of  rare  sonnets,  and  two  tragedies.  In  all 
his  work  there  is  strength,  sincerity,  insight,  and  an  easy  mastery  of 
expression.  As  in  the  case  of  Clough  and  Thackeray,  Stevenson 
and  Kipling,  INIasefield  has  warm  personal  tics  binding  him  to 
America. 


ALFRED   NOYES 

Like  Masefield,  Noyes  is  as  well  known  and  appreciated  in  America 
as  in  England.  His  favorite  themes  are  drawn  from  the  folk-lore  of 
England  and  from  English  history  and  tradition.  There  is  brilliant 
promise  in  the  lively  imagination  no  less  than  in  the  swift  and  musical 
verse  of  this  very  real  young  poet. 


INDEX   OF   POETS,   TITLES,   AND 
FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (May  his  tribe  increase!) 158 

Addison,  Joseph 70 

Admiral's  Ghost,  The 299 

Agincourt 30 

A  is  an  Angel  of  blushing  eighteen 258 

Alexander's  P'east,  or  the  Power  of  Music 64 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.    Slugs  leave  their  lair 141 

Alphabet,  The 258 

Although  I  enter  not 218 

Asolando,  Epilogue  from 246 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve 252 

Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold,  The 161 

At  the  church  gate 218 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep  time 246 

Auld  Lang  Syne 117 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 57 

Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington,  The 22 

Ballad  of  East  and  West,  A 283 

Barbara  Allen's  Cruelty 21 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field 122 

BeUeve  me  if  all  these  endearing  young  charms 152 

Bid  me  to  live  and  I  will  live 51 

Blake,  William 107 

Bloodhorse,  The 160 

Blow,  blow,  thou  Winter  Wind 36 

Boadicea,  an  Ode 91 

Bonnie  Doon no 

Border  Ballad 140 

Bosom  Sin,  The 54 

BowEK,  Edward 262 

Boy  and  the  Wolf,  The 121 

Break,  break,  break 202 

361 


362     Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines 

PAGE 

Breathes  there  a  man 139 

Brook's  Song,  The 211 

Brown,  Thomas  Edward 258 

Browne,  William 49 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett 198 

Browning,  Robert 221 

Bruce  to  his  Army 119 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  The 167 

Burghers'  Battle,  The 267 

Burns,  Robert 109 

Byron,  Lord  George  Gordon 161 

Calverley,  Charles  Stuart 258 

Campbell,  Thomas 150 

Canterbury  Tales,  The i 

Carey,  Henry 79 

Cargoes 293 

Carroll,  Lewis 259 

Casabianca 181 

Cataract  of  Lodore,  The 143 

Cavalier  Tunes 235 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,  The 203 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey i 

Chevy  Chase 11 

Clerk,  The 5 

Clerk  there  was  of  Oxenford  also,  A 5 

Clifton  Chapel 280 

Cloud,  The 172 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh 251 

Cock  is  crowing.  The 125 

Coleridge,  Hartley 186 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor 140 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love 34 

Come  Sleep,  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace 29 

Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge 132 

Condemned  to  Hope's  delusive  mine 83 

Contented  John 155 

Cornwall,  Barry 160 

Court  Lady,  A 199 

Cowper,William 91 

Crabbed  age  and  Youth 39 


Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines      363 

PAGE 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud 56 

Crossing  the  Bar. , 215 

Cunningham,  Allan 156 

Cupid  and  Campaspe 28 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 28 

Curd's  Progress,  The 265 

Curfew  Tolls  the  Knell  of  Parting  day,  The 85 

Cyriack,  this  three  j'ears  day,  these  eyes,  though  clear 58 

Delight  in  Disorder 50 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  The 161 

DiBDiN,  Charles 105 

Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin,  The 95 

DoBSON,  Austin 265 

DoDGSON,  Charles  L 259 

Douglas,  William 193 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand  miles  away 278 

Drake's  Drum 278 

Dreamy  rhymer's  measured  snore,  The 149 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 43 

Dryden,  John 61 

Dyer,  Sir  Edward 24 

Eagle,  The 210 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair 132 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  mad  dog,  An 90 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard,  An '85 

Elixir,  The 54 

End  of  the  Play,  The 219 

Enforst  to  seek  some  covert  nigh  at  hand 27 

Epigram,  An 140 

Epigram 77 

Epilogue  from  Asolando,  The 246 

Epitaph  on  a  Hare 94 

Epitaph  on  the  Admirable  Dramatic  poet,  William  Shakspere.  .  58 

Epitaph  on  Charles  II 69 

Epitajih  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke 49 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  mind 166 

Ethereal  minstrel!  pilgrim  of  the  sky 128 

Eve  of  Waterloo,  The 162 

Fair  DafTodils,  we  weep  to  see 51 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 30 


364     Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines 

PAGE 

Farewell,  Ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong 118 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age 75 

Fear  Death?    To  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat 247 

First  I  salute  this  soil  of  the  blessed,  river  and  rock 230 

Five-and-thirty  black  slaves 276 

Flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by,  A 133 

For  a'  that  and  a'  that 115 

Forty  years  on  when  afar  and  asunder 262 

From  the  bonny  bells  of  heather 273 

From  the  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot 78 

From  the  Epistle  to  Mr.  Addison 78 

Full  little  knowest  thou  that  hast  not  tried 26 

Gaffer  Gray 104 

Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed 160 

Gardener's  Song,  The 260 

Garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot,  A 258 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may 49 

Gay,  John 74 

Genteel  in  personage 79 

Give  to  me  the  life  I  love 272 

God  of  our  fathers,  Known  of  old 292 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 90 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  King 11 

Going  down  hill  on  a  bicycle 277 

Good  little  boys  should  never  say 193 

Good  man  was  ther  of  religioun,  A 6 

Good  people  all  of  every  sort 9 

Gray,  Thomas 84 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass 159 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit 168 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league 203 

Happy  Warrior,  The 1 29 

Hark,  hark,  the  Lark 38 

Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls,  The 153 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked  hands 210 

Heather  Ale,  The 273 

Hemans,  Felicia  Dorothea 181 

Henley,  William  Ernest 269 

Henry  V  to  his  Troops  before  Harfleur 42 

Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes  with  purple  were  dark .  199 


Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines     365 

PAGE 

Herbert,  George 53 

Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling 105 

Here  lies  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King 69 

Here  lies  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue 94 

Herrick,  Robert 49 

Herve  Riel 225 

He  thought  he  saw  an  elephant 260 

Higher  Pantheism,  The 210 

Highland  ]\Iary 112 

Highwaj-man,  The 295 

Ho!  Why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake,  Gaffer  Gray 104 

HoLCROFT,  Thomas 104 

Home 269 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead 204 

Hood,  Thomas 190 

Hope  deferred 26 

How  do  I  love  thee 198 

How  does  the  water 143 

How  doth  the  little  busy  bee 72 

How  fond  are  men  of  rule  and  place 74 

How  soon  hath  time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth 56 

How  they  brought  the  good  news  from  Ghent  to  Aix 223 

Hunt,  Leigh i57 

I  am  his  Highness'  dog  at  Kew 77 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers 172 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern 211 

If  a  man  who  turnips  cries 82 

If  a  stranger  passed  the  tent  of  Hoseyn 241 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 199 

I  intended  an  ode 266 

I  know  a  thing  that's  most  uncommon 77 

I  met  a  traveler  from  an  antique  land 177 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again 295 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 221 

In  Scarlet  town,  where  I  was  born 21 

Inscribed  on  the  Collar  of  a  Dog 77 

Invictus 270  - 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 142 

I  recollect  a  nurse  called  Ann 254 

I  remember,  I  remember 190 


366     Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines 

PAGE 

I^w  a  ship  a-sailing 294 

I^ent  for  Ratcliffe;  was  so  ill 70 

Ifsprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he 223 

Is  there  for  honest  Poverty 115 

I  tell  you  a  tale  tonight 301 

I  thought  how  once  Theocritus  had  sung 198 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 44 

It  little  profits  that,  an  idle  King 208 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass 39 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 128 

"I  would,"  says  Fox,  "  a  tax  devise" 107 

Ivry 194 

Jabberwocky 259 

Jack  and  Joe 264 

Jack's  a  scholar,  as  all  men  say 264 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met 159 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John iii 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 95 

Johnson,  Samuel 82 

JoNSON,  Ben 43 

Jumblies,  The 248 

Keats,  John 182 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  Stood  for  his  King 235 

Keyboard,  The 276 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king  and  loved  a  royal  sport 157 

King,  Henry 52 

King  sits  in  Dunfermline  town.  The 8 

KiNGSLEY,  Charles 253 

Kipling,  Rltdyard 281 

Knight,  The 2 

Knight  ther  was  and  that  a  worthy  man,  A 2 

Kubla  Khan 142 

Lad  that  is  gone,  A 271 

Laird  o'  Cockpen,  he's  proud  and  he's  great,  The 120 

Lamb,  The 107 

Landor,  Walter  Savage 148 

Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom 197 

Lear,  Edward 248 

L'Envoi 293 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star 52 


Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines      367 

PAGE 

Limerick,  A 251 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern 182 

Little  Billee 216 

Little  boy  was  set  to  keep,  A 121 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee 107 

Little  work,  a  little  play,  A 262 

Lochinvar 135 

Locker-Lampson,  Frederick 254 

Lord  Lovel  he  stood  at  his  castle  gate 19 

Lord,  with  what  care  hast  thou  begirt  us  'round 54 

Lovelace,  Richard 60 

Lover,  Samuel 187 

Lyly,  John 28 

Macaulay 149 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington 194 

Macpherson's  Farewell 118 

Maiden's  Ideal  of  a  Husband,  A 79 

March,  March,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale 140 

Marlowe,  Christopher 34 

Mary  Morison 112 

Masefield,  John 293 

Maurier,  George  du 262 

Maxwelton's  braes  are  bonny 193 

Metrical  feet:  lesson  for  a  boy 141 

Milton,  John 56 

Milton,  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour 132 

Moore,  Thomas 152 

Morris,  William 267 

Motherwell,  William 186 

Monsieur  the  cure  down  the  street 265 

Much  have  I  travel'd  in  the  realms  of  gold 183 

Muleykeh 241 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die 177 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  passed 147 

My  Garden 258 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men 206 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands 116 

My  Last  Duchess 237 

My  little  son,  who  looked  from  thoughtful  eyes 256 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is 24 


368      Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines 

PAGE 

Mysterious  Night!  when  our  first  parent 148 

My  temples  throb,  my  pulses  boil 192 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart 29 

Naiene,  Carolina  Lady 120 

Newman,  John  Henry 197 

No! 192 

Noble  Nature,  The 44 

No  sun,  no  moon 192 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note 167 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are.  .  . .  194 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 184 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 178 

Oh,  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never  the  twain  shall  meet.  283 

O,  Falmouth  is  a  fine  town,  with  ships  in  the  bay 269 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  sweet 79 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blow no 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 153 

Old  Ballads 8 

Old  Song  Re-sung,  An 294 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay 137 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be 112 

O,  my  love's  like  a  red,  red  rose 109 

On  a  certain  Lady  at  Court 77 

On  a  Girdle SS 

Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends 42 

On  Chillon 166 

One  day  I  wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand 26 

One  honest  John  Tompkins,  a  hedger  and  ditcher 155 

One  night  came  on  a  hurricane 106 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 183 

On  his  Blindness 57 

On  his  deathbed  poor  Lubin  lies 69 

On  his  having  Arrived  to  the  Age  of  Twenty-Three 56 

On  Lindea  when  the  sun  was  low 151 

On  the  Death  of  a  Favorite  Cat 84 

On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Robert  Levet 83 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket 184 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont 57 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 93 

On  the  sea,  and  at  the  Hoguc,  sixteen  hundred  ninety-two 22/; 


Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines      369 

PAGE 

Others  abide  our  question.    Thou  art  free 254 

Our  God,  our  Help  in  Ages  Past 73 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me 270 

O  wild  West  Wind,  Thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being 178 

Owl  and  the  Pussycat,  The 250 

O  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West 135 

Ozymandias I77 

Parson,  The 6 

Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love,  The 34 

Patmore,  Cov-kntry 256 

Peace  to  all  such!    But  were  there  one  whose  fires 78 

Pheidippides 230 

Pillar  of  the  Cloud,  The I97 

Play  is  done,  the  curtain  drops,  The 219 

Poetry  of  Earth  is  never  dead.  The 184 

Politeness ^93 

Poor  Soul,  the  center  of  my  sinful  earth 42 

Pope,  Alexander 75 

Prioress,  The 4 

Prior,  Matthew 69 

Procter,  Bryan  Waller 160 

Prospice 247 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood I37 

Pulley,  The 53 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 252 

Quinquircme  of  Nineveh  from  distant  Ophir 293 

"  Rather  be  dead  than  praised,"  he  said 267 

Reasonable  Aflfliction,  A 69 

Recessional 292 

Red,  red  Rose,  A lOQ 

Requiem 276 

Requiescat 255 

Ring  out,  wild  bells 214 

Rochester,  Earl  of 69 

Rory  o'  More 187 

Rosabelle ^37 

Ruth i9i 

Sailor's  Consolation,  The lo^* 

Sally  in  our  Alley 79 

Say  not  the  struggle  naught  availeth 251 


370      Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines 

PAGE 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled 119 

Scott,  Sir  Walter 135 

Sea  Dirge,  A 37 

Sea  Fever 295 

Selection  from  the  Faerie  Queene 27 

Self-dependence 255 

Shakspere 254 

Shakspere  and  Milton 148 

Shakspere,  William 36 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair 47 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 1 24 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 186 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 1 23 

Spielley,  Percy  Byssiie 168 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley 107 

Sherwood  in  the  twilight,  is  Robin  Hood  awake? 295 

She  stood  breast-high  among  the  corn 191 

She  walks  in  beauty i  C6 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot 117 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip 29 

Silvia 38 

Simplex  Munditiis 44 

Since  there's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and  jjart 30 

Sing  me  a  hero!    Quench  my  thirst 239 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone 271 

Sir  Galahad 206 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 8 

Slumber  did  my  spirit  seal,  A 125 

Sluggard,  The 71 

Smith,  Sydney 134 

Solitary  Reaper,  The 122 

Sneezing 158 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day 62 

Song  of  Sherwood,  A 293 

Sorrows  of  Werther 217 

Souls  of  Poets,  dead  and  gone 182 

SouTHLY,  Robert 143 

Splendor  falls  on  castle  walls,  The 205 

Spacious  Firmament  on  High,  The 70 

Spenser,  Edmund 25 


Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines 


J/ 


PAGE 

Squire,  The 3 

Statesman,  yet  friend  to  truth!  of  soul  sincere 78 

Steed,  a  steed  of  matchless  speed,  A 186 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 271 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  dressed 44 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses 255 

Suckling,  Sir  John 59 

Sunset  and  Evening  Star 215 

Sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and  the  plains.  The.  210 

Sweet  Day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright 53 

Sweet  disorder  in  the  dress,  A 50 

Sweet  is  the  rose  but  grows  upon  a  brier 25 

Tabard  Inn,  The i 

Tamburlaine  to  Calyphas 35 

Taylor,  Jane 155 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King 54 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 60 

Tennyson,  Alfred 202 

Terrible  Infant,  A 254 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace 216 

That's  my  last  Duchess,  painted  on  the  wall 237 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 55 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 181 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods 164 

There  was  an  old  man  in  a  tree 251 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night 162 

There  was  a  youth,  a  well-beloved  youth 22 

Ther  was  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse 4 

There's  a  breathless  hush  in  the  close  tonight 279 

There's  no  sense  in  going  further — it's  the  edge  of  cultivation ....  288 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  city 216 

The  wind  wus  a  torrent  of  darkness  among  the  gusty  trees 297 

The  year's  at  the  spring 246 

They  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve,  they  did 248 

Thick  rise  the  spear-shafts  o'er  the  land 267 

This  is  the  chapel:  here,  my  son 280 

Thomson,  James 81 

Thou  shalt  not  have  a  foot  unless  thou  bear 35 

Thought  of  a  Briton  on  the  Subjugation  of  Switzerland 133 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness 184 


'^"ji      Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines 

PAGE 

Three  poets  in  three  distant  ages  born 6 1 

Tiger,  The io8 

Tiger,  Tiger io8 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer 154 

'Tis  the  voice  of  the  sluggard;  I  heard  him  complain 71 

To  Althea  from  prison 60 

To  Anthea  who  may  command  him  anything 51 

To  a  Mouse 113 

To  a  Skylark 168 

To  Celia 43 

To  Cyriack  Skinner 58 

To  Daffodils 51 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakspere,  on  thy  name 45 

Toll  for  the  brave!     93 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars 6c 

To  make  this  condiment,  your  poet  begs 134 

To  Mira,  on  her  incomparable  poems 71 

To  Minerva 19a 

Tom  Bowling 105 

Tongue  of  England,  that  which  myriads,  The 148 

To  night 148 

To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell 56 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket 159 

To  the  memory  of  my  beloved  Master,  William  Shakspere 45 

To  the  Virgins  to  make  much  of  Time 49 

Toys,  The 256 

Tray 239 

Tribute  to  his  Mother,  A 213 

Trochee  trips  from  long  to  short 141 

Turner,  Elizabeth 193 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 64 

'Twas  brillig  and  the  slithy  toves 259 

'Twas  on  a  lofty  vase's  side 84 

Two  Views  of  Addison 78 

Two  voices  are  there,  one  is  of  the  Sea 133 

Ulysses 208 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 49 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 36 

Under  the  Portrait  of  Milton 61 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 276 


Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines      373 

PAGE 

Universal  Prayer 75 

Urceus  Exit 266 

Vagabond,  The 272 

Virtue 53 

Vital  Lampada 279 

Watson,  William 276 

Watts,  Isaac 71 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 255 

Wee,  sleckit,  cow'rin,  tim'rous  beastie 113 

Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 217 

Wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea,  A 156 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  schowres  swoote i 

We've  fought  with  many  men  acrost  the  seas 281 

What  a  moment,  what  a  doubt 158 

What  is  an  epigram?    A  dwarfish  whole 140 

What  needs  my  Shakspere  for  his  honored  bones 58 

When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad „ 253 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes 50 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command 81 

When  dress'd  in  laurel  wreaths  you  shine 71 

When  Earth's  last  picture  is  painted,  and  the  tubes  are  twisted 

and  dried 293 

When  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy 188 

When  God  at  first  made  man 53 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 57 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes 40 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 41 

When  love  with  unconfined  wings 60 

When  the  British  warrior  queen 91 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 41 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  1 37 

White,  Joseph  Blanco 148 

Who  is  Silvia?    What  is  she 38 

Who  is  the  happy  warrior?    Who  is  he 129 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover 59 

WiLMOT,  John 69 

Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  Universe 1 26 

Wither,  George 47 

With  him  ther  was  his  sone,  a  young  Squyer 3 

With  lifted  feet,  hands  still 277 


374     Index  of  Poets,  Titles,  First  Lines 

PAGE 

Wolfe,  Charles 167 

Wordsworth,  William 122 

"Work  without  hope 141 

"World  is  too  much  with  us,  The 134 

Written  in  March 125 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  Bonnie  Doon no 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 112 

Ye  mariners  of  England 15° 

You  beat  your  pate,  and  fancy  wit  will  come 77 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon 221 

Young  and  Old 253 

Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn 187 


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